


Orpheus Descending

by Sir_Thopas



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Homeless Stan Pines, Manipulative Bill Cipher, Murder Mystery, Not Tagged Character Death for a Reason, Paranoid Ford Pines, Prostitution, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28448025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Thopas/pseuds/Sir_Thopas
Summary: Where do souls go when they die? Ford had not delved too deep into the metaphysical during his time in Gravity Falls, but when Stanley is murdered and a ghost takes up residence in the shack, Ford starts to believe that maybe the human soul lives on, perhaps not on this plane of existence but in another. One that might be reached by means of a portal.Ford is determined to get his brother back. Luckily, he might just know a guy that can help with that.
Comments: 136
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

There’s a list inside of Stan’s head, of things he wouldn’t do. _~~At least he’s never robbed someone.~~ ~~At least he’s not some hired thug.~~ ~~At least he’s never been to prison.~~ At least he’s never turned tricks._ He’s had to scratch them off one by one as the years passed. He doesn’t know what he’ll do once he reaches the bottom. Throw in the towel and eat a gun, probably. But he’s not there yet. There’s still a couple more at least. 

He scratches off _never turned tricks_ as the guy says, “I’ll give you ten bucks to suck my cock.” 

The man is young and tall, as tall as Stan, maybe even as strong as him though the rumpled suit hides his body. Stan wants to punch him. He wants him out of his car, he wants to scrub every inch this man has touched until the memory of him is burned out because this car is the only home he has. Instead, Stan says, “Twenty.” 

“Okay.” 

The man is already pulling himself out, half-hard, and Stan reaches across the console. He takes him in hand, feels the weight of him. He’s stalling. He breathes out through his nose and leans over. The man shifts, his jacket falling open and Stan can just see the glint of a gun nestled in its holster before a hand comes up to cup the back of his head, pushing him down into the man’s crotch.

* * *

Ford sat at his desk, tapping his pen against his journal. A baker’s dozen of scrap paper and rough calculations on gnomish physiology were scattered around him. He had yet to see a female gnome, if such a creature existed. Who knew how these beings reproduced? _Tap tap tap_ Of course, he still needed to complete the translation of the Druidic Deepest Chant. Maybe he should transcribe those cave drawings he found instead... 

_Tap tap tap_

Ford stared at the blank page, his mind refusing to stay focused on any one thing. It was difficult to concentrate. He had been feeling at loose ends lately, unraveled, unmotivated. His work just... didn’t hold his interest, which was _ridiculous_ because what else could he possibly want? He was doing what he always wanted to do. There was nowhere he’d rather be. 

Maybe another cup of coffee would help. 

Ford dropped the pen and shuffled into the kitchen to start another pot. He should probably get some lunch too. He opened the fridge and peered inside, his eyes darting from leftover pasta to the deli meat. A sandwich, perhaps? But he really should finish that pasta before it went bad... To be honest, neither sounded particularly appetizing to Ford. Nothing in the refrigerator did. He was hungry, but he wasn’t hungry. He wanted to work, but he didn’t want to work. He wanted... something. 

Ford gave a start at the sound of someone knocking on his front door. He hardly ever got visitors. He closed the fridge and walked into the living room, glancing around at the mess of papers he had left on the couch. He glanced between the door and the couch. There was another knock and, in a panic, Ford grabbed a blanket from the back of a chair and covered the papers with it. “Coming!” He yelled and rushed to pull open the door. 

He gave a start and took a half-step back. Sheriff O’Malley stood on his porch. “Stanford Pines?” He asked. 

“Yes, yes, that’s me. Come in, has something happened?” His mind flew through the possibilities. He held open the door and O’Malley, hat in hand, took a few hesitant steps inside. His eyes scanned the living room, taking in the various oddities Ford had collected, the trash he had left lying around, before focusing back on Ford. 

“There’s some detectives down in Georgia that would like to speak to you.” 

Ford blinked. Georgia? Why would anyone, much less a detective, from _Georgia_ want to speak with him? Fiddleford wasn’t from Georgia, was he? No, no, Tennessee. He was from Tennessee, Ford was sure of it. Or possibly Kentucky. Had something happened to him? Although, if Fiddleford finally got to build those robots he was always dreaming up, perhaps a better question would be, _what has Fiddleford done?_

“A vehicle was found submerged in the Okefenokee Swamp,” O’Malley continued. “It was determined to have belonged to Stanley Pines.” 

All thoughts of Fiddleford and his robots evaporated at that name. “I’m sorry?” Ford asked, because his mind couldn’t catch up with what Sheriff O’Malley had just said. Stan’s car was in a swamp? How did it get in a swamp? Why was O’Malley here, telling him this? 

“Remains were found, matching your brother’s height, age, and race. We believe it to be him--” 

“Stanley’s a good driver.” 

Ford doesn’t know why he said that, because it’s not true. Stanley is a _terrible_ driver who had no respect for the speed limit. Regardless, Stanley did not crash his car into a swamp. Even if he had stopped wearing his glasses, he would have definitely seen a swamp in front of him. 

O’Malley seemed to understand, because he said, “The victim was determined to have died from a gunshot, not from drowning or injuries sustained from a car crash.” 

Ford jerked away from O’Malley. He paced the length of his living room, gulping mouthfuls of air as he struggled to breathe. His front door had been left open, and the heat of the afternoon was seeping into his house and sucking out all the air. He pivoted on his heel and slammed the door closed, wiping at the sweat that was gathering along his forehead. It wasn’t Stanley. Obviously, it wasn’t Stanley. What was even in Georgia? Nothing, nothing that Stan would want. 

Ford leveled his gaze on O’Malley, who stared back with such pity in his eyes. Ford wanted to punch him. “I haven’t spoken to Stanley in years,” Ford said, his voice turning cold and disdainful. “I don’t know where he is.” 

The pity only deepened. “There still needs to be an official statement, and... you should be down there, to identify the body and make arrangements.” He placed a hand on Ford’s shoulder. Ford shrugged it off. O’Malley sighed. “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

Sheriff O’Malley fixed his hat back on his head and Ford was only too happy to open the door for him. He slammed it shut behind him, taking time to lock it, before rushing to the bathroom to throw up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My hometown of Macon is a weird place sometimes, so I thought it only fitting to include it in a Gravity Falls fanfic.

Ford expected to be taken to the morgue the moment he stepped off the train in Macon, Georgia. That's how it happened in the movies, right? Cold and sterile, a long row of freezers waiting for him. The coroner would open one, revealing a body hidden under a sheet with only its feet peeking out, a yellow tag tied to the big toe. Instead, they drove him to the police station.

Detective Lawson -- the officer who had been waiting for him at the terminal -- smiled and held open the door to the backseat of his patrol car. As the door slammed shut behind him, Ford noticed that the interior handles had been removed, leaving only a flat plane of hard, smooth plastic. His face must have shown his alarm, because Lawson laughed as he climbed into the driver's seat, glancing at him from behind the mesh wire that separated the front from the back. "Most folks that end up back there are itchin' for a getaway," Lawson explained.

"I would prefer to sit up front," Ford said through clenched teeth. His anxiety was spiking. He tried breathing through his nose, but it was coming too quick. He wasn't claustrophobic. He wasn't. But he was trapped and he was being taken to look at a dead body that they claimed was his brother.

"Sorry, it's policy." Lawson didn't look particularly sorry. Ford watched his eyes as he stared at him in the rearview mirror. He'd seen that look on Fiddleford's face when working on a particularly difficult equation. Like Ford was a puzzle in need of figuring out.

"You know," Lawson said. "Macon's a good little town."

"Oh, I bet," Ford answered dryly as they passed the terminal station's "colored only" entrance.

"This isn't New Orleans, we don't want a salacious reputation."

Ford dug his fingers into the seat as they came to a stoplight. He watched in disbelief as a military tank rolled past him. "Is something going on that I should know about?" Ford demanded.

"Oh, no, that's just our mayor, Machine Gun Ronnie."

"Your mayor is nicknamed _Machine Gun_?"

"Yeah, but it wasn't like he actually tried to kill those folks with a machine gun. It was a carbine long gun, but that just don't roll off the tongue as well."

The light turned green and they were off.

There was a hive of activity inside the police station. Lawson led him into a plain room where a table sat between two metal chairs. A large mirror took up most of the back wall. One-way, of course. It was an interrogation room. At least, that was what it was always used for on television. He couldn't imagine what else they could use a room like this for. But it wasn't like Ford was a suspect. This room _must_ have a secondary purpose too boring to be shown on TV.

A file had been left on the table and Lawson gestured for him to take a seat.

Ford slid into the chair, shivering as the cold metal seeped through his clothes. Lawson flipped open the folder and said, without looking up, "I assume you've been informed of the circumstances surrounding your brother's death?"

"It hasn't been proven that it is him," Ford insisted. "I have to identify the body."

Lawson shot him a patronizing glance from over the folder. "Coroner estimated he'd been dead for months. He was in that swamp the entire time. Son... there's not much left to identify."

Ford's stomach rolled at the images his mind conjured up, but he stubbornly pushed past it and clung to the little bit of hope he found. "Then you can't be sure it was him!"

Lawson stood up and knocked on the door. A uniformed officer poked his head in and Lawson whispered something to him. A moment later the officer returned with a box and gave it to Lawson, who took it back to the table. Inside the box were a series of objects, bagged and labelled, that he methodically placed on the table in front of him.

Stanley's driver's license. Stanley's glasses. Stanley's keys. There was even the old key to the pawnshop still on the keychain, he'd never bothered to take it off.

"These were all inside a jacket found on the remains," Lawson said.

"Stanley stopped wearing his glasses in public by sophomore year," Ford said, mulishly glaring at the thick black frames. "I doubt his prescription would have stayed the same after all this time. It doesn't make sense that he'd still be carrying these old glasses around."

Lawson snorted. "Do you think we planted them?"

Ford's eyes snaked up. "The thought hadn't occurred to me, but now that you mention it..."

"Maybe he couldn't afford another pair." Lawson pulled out a photograph this time. It was a picture of a license plate, rusted and covered in grime. Ford could just barely make out STNLYMBL.

Ford stared at the license plate and then back at his brother's driver's license. It was expired, it even still had his old photo when he was sixteen. "The license is expired."

"So?"

"His car tags are up to date."

"He had several aliases. Perhaps he had a current one under a false name."

"Then why didn't he have that license on him? Why this one?"

"You weren't the first person we contacted about your brother's death," Lawson said. Ford was about to interrupt him, to point out that he had yet to prove Stanley had indeed died, when Lawson said, "We managed to get ahold of your father first. He told us he didn't have a son named Stanley and hung up. Sounds like there's some bad blood there."

"Yes," Ford said haltingly.

"Want to tell us about that?"

"What does it matter?"

"I'm just trying to get a clearer picture. What about you and him? Identical twins, must have been pretty close."

"I haven't seen or spoken to Stanley in years," Ford snapped. Lawson raised his brows in surprise at that. "And I never told you we were twins."

"You didn't have to. I picked Stanley up about a week before he died for petty theft." Lawson leaned forward. "And I know you were still in contact with him. He was given one phone call and he called _you_."

Ford jerked back. "What?"

"We pulled the phone logs. He called you and then hung up the moment you answered. Was this some sort of pre-arranged message? A code?"

Ford's mind raced. That damned prank caller. He thought it had been some prick in Backupsmore, jealous that Ford actually had potential, that he wasn't a nobody like the rest of them. The calls had followed him all the way to Gravity Falls. Had it been Stan this entire time?

"Am I a suspect?" Ford asked.

Lawson shot him a Hollywood smile, his teeth straight and perfectly white. "Aw, hell, who isn't? Your brother had a talent for pissing people off it seems."

"I want a lawyer."

"Sure, son."

"Am I free to go?"

"Yeah, but don't wander too far, ya hear?"

Ford nodded, still staring at Lawson's shining smile. "Dental records."

"I'm sorry?"

"Stan's dental records. If that... the body... if it is Stan then the dental records should match."

Lawson's expression took on a somber air, but Ford could see the corners of his mouth lifting. He couldn't fully repress that smile. "Didn't no one tell you? Your brother was shot through the mouth, blew out most of his teeth."

Ford was led out of the police station. He stood on the sidewalk, listening to the distant sound of thunder. Above him, in red neon lights, a sign proclaimed JESUS CARES. He shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking.


	3. Chapter 3

Ford sat back and let his lawyer, John Mann, deal with Lawson. His firm was proudly called Mann & Mann and Stan's voice, that lived somewhere in the back of Ford's brain and existed solely to make stupid puns, laughed and joked, _More like Mann_ **on** _Mann._

"The remains have been proven, beyond all reasonable doubt, to be that of Stanley Pines. Mr. Pines-- oh, I'm sorry," Lawson flashed him a sharp-toothed grin. " _Doctor_ Pines's insistence that it is not, is, frankly, ridiculous at this point."

"Regardless, you have no leads and no real evidence, I must insist you cease harassing my client and release the remains for burial--"

"I'm not taking them!" Ford interrupted hotly. "I'm not going to take some stranger's corpse and bury him under _my_ brother's name!"

Mann leaned forward and whispered, "Son, I'm just trying to look out for you." And Ford detested the way everyone down here called him _son_ like he was a child in need of placating. "You're emotional right now. You're not thinking right. Don't do anything you might regret."

Ford was the one who wasn't thinking clearly? This whole town was full of lunatics who were so _arrogant_ in their own belief that they were _right_ that they refused to even contemplate all the possibilities! Oh, this person was wearing Stan's jacket and had his expired driver's license? It must be Stanley then! And Lawson had the gall to call _him_ ridiculous? Ford was the only one willing to look at all the evidence! " _It isn't Stanley_ ," Ford hissed back.

"Okay," Mann murmured. "Maybe it isn't. It was still somebody. Don't they deserve a proper burial?"

Ford faltered, momentarily thrown by this. "I... Yes. Yes, of course, but I don't want his tombstone to have Stanley's name."

"You'll find plenty of John Does in Rose Hill. Whoever he was, he won't be alone."

Ford sat back, quiet, as Mann turned his attention back to Lawson. Ford let his gaze wander before finally resting on the case file left on the edge of the table. He shot a glance at Lawson.

"We have no intention of pressing charges at this time," Lawson finally admitted. "Though that may change if new evidence is found."

"Then I think we're done here."

Lawson stood up and headed toward the door and Ford, so quickly and quietly that he knew it would have made Stan proud, slipped the file into his trench coat while both Lawson and Mann had their backs turned. "I'll keep in touch," Lawson said as he stepped out of the interrogation room, waving at the pair of them as he headed down the hall to a row of cubicles.

Mann patted him on his back. "Come on, I'll take you back to your motel."

"Thank you," Ford said. _Head straight, shoulders back,_ Stan's voice said. _If you slink around all hunched up like that, people are gonna think you've done something wrong._ Ford straightened up and let go of his jacket, trusting that the file was well-hidden, nestled in the pocket next to his journal.

"Look," Mann sighed. "Is there anyone you can call? Someone who can help you through this?"

"This is just a mix-up," Ford insisted. "There's no reason to worry my family over nothing."

Mann sighed again and shook his head.

* * *

Ford rushed into his room, bolting the door shut before taking out the file. There wasn't a desk. Just a bed, a telephone, a lamp, and some truly hideous wallpaper. Ford sat crossed leg on the shag carpet, his back against the bed, and opened the file.

There was a chart showing a rough outline of a man's body. A red dot had been placed over the cartoon man's mouth. _Single bullet entered through the maxilla on the left side and exited through the right zygoma._

Ford flipped over to the next page. There were photographs of the clothing found on the corpse. They looked little more than rags, half-eaten by the swamp, and Ford had to rely on the descriptions provided by the investigators to make sense of what he was seeing. _Red cotton jacket, the sleeves appear to have been purposely cut, not torn, up to the armpits. Button-down shirt, possibly white or light blue. Black slacks. Shoes not found. Feet had detached from victim due to decomposition._

Next page. A diagram of Stanley's car. _Victim was found wedged along the floorboard, head pointing to driver's seat_.

Ford flipped the page and his mouth went dry. There were photographs of the body. The top layer of skin was peeling away, slipping off of the flesh. What was left was mottled and gray. There was hair -- brown hair, like Stan's -- but the face was shattered, the bottom-half gone, blown away or rotted off. Only the left eye remained. It was milky white and stared unseeing up at Ford.

Oh, God. _Oh, God._

Stanley was dead.

Ford wrenched himself towards the phone, nearly snapping the cord as he pulled it against his chest. He tried to keep his hands from shaking as he punched in the numbers.

His father picked up on the third ring. ' _Hello_?' His gruff voice crackled through the line.

Ford licked his lips and tried to force sound out of his parched throat.

' _Who_ _is_ _this_?'

"Dad," he croaked. "It's Stanford."

' _Been a while. What, you've been too busy with your experiments to remember your parents?_ '

"I'm, uh, I-I need to talk to you. It's about Stanley."

His father grunted. ' _I don't want to hear it!_ ' He snapped. ' _A cop from Georgia called the other week, probably to tell me the knucklehead's landed himself in jail or something. As far as I'm concerned, that leech is no son of mine._ '

As he listened to Filbrick, cold fury sparked inside Ford's stomach, pushing down the nausea and panic and making his voice sound almost normal. "Yeah, well, I just thought I would inform Mom that Stanley is dead," he said, his voice clipped and hard. Filbrick went silent on the other end. "I will call back later and inform her of the arrangements after they've been made." He slammed the receiver down before Filbrick could say another word.

Ford quickly dialled another number, twisting the cord around his fingers. He heard Shermie's voice. He sounded rough with sleep. Ford glanced at the clock. It was still only 6:00 in California.

' _Hmm, hruh, hello?_ ' Shermie mumbled.

The rage that had fueled his conversation with his father dissipated and the only sound that Ford could make was a strangled, animal keening.

' _Hello?_ ' Shermie asked, sounding alarmed. ' _Who is this?_ '

"Shermie," Ford gasped. "Stanley's dead."

He pulled the receiver tight against his head until his ear went numb with pain, and laid down on his side, knees drawn up, and sobbed out the story.


	4. Chapter 4

Shermie wired him some money. He promised he would be there in a few days. The next time Ford called home he got his mother. Filbrick must have told her what happened, because she was quiet, subdued in a way that Ford had never heard her before, her voice rough and raw. She said almost nothing, whispering only “yes” and “okay” to the things Ford told her. “You’ll be here?” He asked. 

' _Yes,_ ' Caryn whispered. " _Of course._ ' 

Ford considered having the body shipped to New Jersey to be buried in the family plot, but ultimately decided against it. He didn’t know how Stan would hold up during the journey. The director at Hurts Mortuary strongly recommended cremation – Stan wasn’t a “good candidate” for a traditional casket – but the thought turned Ford’s stomach. Stan was in the water for months; Ford wasn’t going to be the one to then throw him into the flames. 

The sun was bright and hot the day of the funeral. It was a wet heat, thick with humidity that sucked the air out of Ford’s lungs. He sat alone in the viewing room, beside the plain wooden casket. The room was beautiful in that old Southern style; he thought maybe the building had once been an old Masonic temple because he had spotted the Eye of Providence carved above the doors. But the room was also impersonal, bare. There hadn’t been enough money for flowers and the only photograph Ford had of Stan was the one when they were kids, on the Stan O’ War. He didn’t even know what Stan looked like now. 

That wasn’t true. He knew what Stan looked like _now_. He couldn’t stop thinking about. Every time he closed his eyes he saw it. The half-face, the single white eye, short brown hair slicked back with brackish water. The picture had only shown Stan from the chest up, but he knew, from the report, that his legs ended in nothing, just bloodless stumps that-- 

A hand fell on Ford’s shoulder, wrenching him out of his thoughts. He flinched at the sudden contact and Shermie jerked back, holding his hands up in peace. “Are you alright?” He asked. 

Ford jerked his head in a close approximation of a nod. 

Shermie tried to close the gap again, but stopped when Ford stiffened. “You’re not looking so good. You’ve been sleeping?” 

Ford shrugged. “It’s hard.” 

“Yeah.” Shermie glanced at the casket, then looked quickly away again. He focused back on Ford. “Rachel wanted to come, but she’s not supposed to travel. The baby’s due in a couple of weeks.” Another falter, another quick glance at Stan. “Are Mom and Dad coming?” 

“Mom is, Dad... I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” 

Shermie nodded. “Yeah... maybe it’s better if...” His face shuttered, looking dark and hard and just like Dad for a moment. “I hope he doesn’t come.” 

In the end, Filbrick did come. He lingered by the door while Caryn plowed through, her arms laden with a large cardboard box. She jerked to a halt as her eyes fell on the casket, shocked into stillness, but then she was moving again, pulling out old pictures of Stan at least nine years out of date out of her box, draping them on the casket, on top of the little end tables with their lace doilies, on the mantle above the fake fireplace. On every free space she could find. She pulled out his old boxing gloves, their high school colors – “Caryn, he didn’t actually graduate,” Filbrick said tiredly, which Caryn pointedly ignored – and little knick-knacks that had been left behind in their childhood bedroom. 

By the time the box was empty, the viewing room had been transformed into a shrine of who Stan was from ages one to seventeen. It irritated Ford, because this... this wasn’t the person who Stan had become. The Stan that died. Ford didn’t know that Stan. 

Caryn stood in the middle of the room, gazing at the closed casket and clutching at the empty box against her chest. Ford noticed that her hair was _too_ black with a bluish tint to it. Dyed. When had she started dying her hair? Caryn shifted from foot to foot and glanced at Ford. “Can I... I want to see,” she said. 

“No,” Ford and Filbrick said the word together. 

Caryn didn’t look at Filbrick. “He’s my son. It’s my right,” she insisted, keeping her eyes on Ford. 

“I...” Ford’s chapped lips felt rough. He coughed and tried again. “I’ve seen him. A picture of him. Just his face. I wish I hadn’t." He leveled a look at his mother. "I’m not going to let you see him.” 

His mother scowled and pivoted around to take the other chair, across the room, away from both Ford and Filbrick. 

“Excuse me.” 

The Pines family looked up to see a young, twenty-something blonde woman standing behind Filbrick. His father shifted out of the doorway to let her through. She walked up to Ford, teetering a little on her black heels. “You didn’t specify how you wanted the programs to look, so I took the liberty of creating them myself. I hope you don’t mind.” She passed out a small, glossy booklet. Ford thumbed through his as she made the rounds. 

The girl had included a poem. Ford scanned the first couple of lines. _Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there..._ His eyes drifted to the bottom of the page where the girl had included an image of a cross. “Um,” he said. “Thank you for this, it was very kind, but we’re Jewish.” 

The girl stared at him in confusion, like what he said didn’t make any sense. “But...” she said. “The mortician, he said... when he was working on the bo...” Then she flushed. Her pale cheeks were as red as tomatoes and she cut herself off quickly. “I am very sorry for this mix-up.” 

“It’s alright,” Ford said, but the girl hurried out of the room, calling back over her shoulder, “The procession will begin in an hour.” 

Shermie watched her go. “The Bible Belt is weird.” 

Filbrick huffed out a small laugh. Ford and Shermie threw him twin glares.

They stayed there until their hour was up, no one speaking or moving from their respective spots. The blonde girl came back, whispered, "it's time. We have some guys that'll help as pallbearers. Did either you or your brother--"

"Yes," Ford and Shermie spoke, nearly at the same time.

The girl nodded. "If you could just follow me, the hearse is this way."

Caryn started gathering up Stan's things. She moved slowly this time, looking them over before setting them gently down in their place within the box she carried. Four Hurts employees in crisp, black suits helped Ford and Shermie place the casket on a gurney. They made the Pines brothers look shabby in comparison. Shermie had shown up in the suit he had worn for his wedding with the dry cleaning tag still attached to the sleeve, and Ford had to make due in a rental that was three inches too short in the legs. They looked ridiculous. This whole thing was a farce.

After getting the casket into the hearse, what was left of the Pines family climbed into Ford's rental car. The air was thick and silent and ice cold, despite the summer heat.

They followed the hearse down the pretty, tree-lined streets and through a black wrought iron gate, into the sprawling necropolis that was Rose Hill Cemetery. Statues of angels crowded around the car as they drove down the red dirt road. Ford could see more red peeking over a hill, and as they came around the bend he saw a mound of clay next to a waiting plot.

The Hurts men helped lower Stan into the ground. The hole gaped up at them, red and angry and hungry as the casket was lowered. In the distance thunder boomed again. The bright sun was quickly overtaken by the summer storms that came like a flash in the pan.

One of the employees walked over to whisper into the ear of a priest standing nearby. The priest rubbed his thumb over his Bible and said, "I understand there was a mix-up? I don't really know the proper way to do this--"

"We aren't practicing," Filbrick interrupted. "Just get it done."

The priest nodded. Ford couldn't keep his focus. His stared blankly at Stan's casket, at the hole, the trees and angels. The tombstone wouldn't be ready for another week. Voices floated up somewhere behind them. Ford turned to see another funeral going on not far from where they stood.

There was a whole crowd of people crying over the grave, and Ford felt an irrational stab of jealousy that there were so many of them and Stanley only had his small handful in their shabby clothes. He let his gaze rest on the mourners. There was something... off about the other funeral. There wasn't a coffin; no waiting hole in the ground, no mound of red clay. Just smooth, cut crass and a photograph resting on a easel. A wreath of flowers had been placed underneath it.

Ford gave a start as he spotted a blonde man with movie star good looks. It was Detective Lawson. In fact, now that he was paying attention, Ford could see several uniformed police officers scattered throughout the crowd of mourners.

Shermie touched his arm just as the first drops of rain started to fall. "Do you mind taking us back to our hotels?" He asked. Ford glanced around and noticed that the priest and the funeral home employees were loading themselves into the hearse. The ground was still open, leaving Stan to face the elements uncovered.

"Aren't they going to fill in the grave?" Ford asked and he hated the way his voice made him sound like a confused child.

Shermie shook his head. "That happens later. Come back to my room with me. We can get a case of beers--"

"This is a dry county," Ford muttered.

"--A case of Yoo-Hoos then."

"I just want to be alone right now."

Shermie sighed. "Yeah. I thought you might say that. Come on, let's head out before the bottom drops."

* * *

Ford dropped off Shermie first, and then his parents. He stopped in front of their hotel. It was an ancient, decrepit Art Deco building; same old Filbrick, too cheap to pay for a real place. At least Ford's motel had proper heating and air.

"Wait! I want to give you something!" Caryn said as she reached into her box. For a moment, Ford was terrified she was about to hand him some old picture of his twin; he didn't want to be burdened with memories of Stan the child.

Instead, she pulled out a Ouija board. Filbrick groaned and threw open the door, stalking out of the car and up the stairs to their hotel. "I'm not going to listen to anymore of this nonsense," he said over his shoulder.

Caryn stayed where she was, looking up at Ford from the backseat, her brown eyes large and wet. "Filbrick doesn't believe in what you do in that little town of yours, but I do. I know if there's any hope of finding out who killed my baby, it's you." She pushed the Ouija board at him. "Contact Stanley. Ask him who did this."

"I-- okay, I'll... I'll try."

Caryn nodded and leaned in close. "And when you find out, you tell me. Because I'm gonna kill the bastard."

Ford didn't know what to say that.

Caryn cupped his face. "I knew you'd understand," she said. "You're just like me." That was something Ford had never heard growing up. It was always Stan -- his theatrics, his confidence, his "personality" -- that was constantly compared to their mother. Ford took too much after their father: quiet and exacting. Caryn brushed a kiss over Ford's forehead and climbed out of the car.

Ford finally made it back to his motel room, carelessly tossing the Ouija board onto his bed. It wasn't that he didn't believe in ghosts -- of course he believed in them -- he just doubted the Mattel toy company could actually summon them with their cheap cardboard Ouija set. He shucked off his too-short suit, toed off his shoes, and headed into the bathroom, his brain operating his body on autopilot. He didn't let himself think of Stanley. He refused to. He was going to take a bath. He was going to sleep. He wasn't going to dream. The rain was coming down in sheets now, beating against the window with all its might. Ford twisted the knobs on the bathtub. Nothing happened. He twisted some more. He could hear a _grr-chunk! grr-chunk!_ sound coming from somewhere deep inside the pipes. He leaned forward and, with one last, _grr-chunk!_ blood erupted from the spout, painting Ford and the tub in all its red, gory mess.

An hour later, after Ford had screamed himself hoarse and nearly snapped the cord on the telephone in his haste to dial the motel manager, the maintenance man came out of the bathroom, wiping his red-stained hands on a white towel. Ford sat on the end of the bed, wrapped up in a clean bathrobe, his leg jumping in anxiety. The maintenance man smiled at him, "It's just good ol' red Georgia clay. These are old pipes and the storms can stir everything up, making a right mess of things. Everything gets stained a little pink 'round here. Does look a fright though, don't it?"


	5. Chapter 5

Ford stood at the foot of Stan's grave. The hole had been filled in and at the head sat a small tombstone. Each letter had cost $20 and Ford had to cut corners to make the money stretch. He didn't even have enough to spell out Stanley's full name.

_Stan Pines  
June 15, 1953 - Nov. 20, 1980_

Ford wasn't sure about the date of death. Lawson had arrested him on the 15th for theft, he'd been released on bail, and was murdered not long after that. The coroner estimated it happened late that November. Ford had flipped through an old calendar, closed his eyes, and randomly picked a day that would serve on his brother's tombstone.

Ford glanced at his watch. He needed to head to the station or he'd miss his train. Ford turned to head down the path, back to his rental car when he noticed a pair of workers installing another tombstone down the hill. It was in the same spot the other funeral had been, the one Detective Lawson and the other police officers had attended. Ford wandered down the hill, toward it. The workers didn't look up as they adjusted the heavy stone slab.

_Clifford Jones  
Born October 13, 1957  
Beloved son, missing and missed._

No death date. Ford circled around and headed back to his car.

* * *

Ford stepped inside his cabin in Gravity Falls. The afternoon light fell across the floor. Everything was exactly as he left it. Just… it seemed bigger. He looked at the pile of papers he had abandoned on his desk, then turned and headed upstairs to throw his suitcase on the bed.

He went back downstairs, took another glance at his work, his feet shifting until he suddenly pivoted and fled into the kitchen. Ford grabbed a glass from the cabinet and twisted the knobs on the kitchen sink.

_Grr-chunk! Grr-chunk!_

Ford leapt away from the sink, his heart crawling up his throat as the awful noises climbed through the pipes. He clutched his glass to his chest and waited for the blood. With one last groan the sink spat out a few ounces of clear water and stopped.

No more sounds.

Ford cautiously approached the sink. He twisted the knobs. They squeaked a little, but there was no blood. There wasn't even any water. Ford slammed his glass down on the counter, angry at himself. He made a note to call a plumber. In the meantime, he would get his water from the well.

With want of anything else to do, he finally shuffled to his desk. The papers were waiting for him. It would be good for him, to get back into the swing of things, he reminded himself. _So stop dragging your feet and get to it._ Ford sat down at his desk and pulled out his notes on the cave drawings he found. He set his journal down and started retracing the drawings, of people praying before a triangular spirit, of the zodiac that surrounded it. There was the incantation, and of course the warning never to speak it aloud. Ford wondered at that; why record the incantation at all if you didn't want anyone to read it? It seemed incredibly short-sighted and betrayed a lack of understanding on human nature. Ford was admittedly curious. He ran his fingers over the incantation. What could possibly go wrong?

Ford shivered and pulled his trench coat closer to his body. After spending the past couple of weeks in Georgia, where every day the temperature reached into the 90s, Oregon felt downright chilly.

He almost jumped at the excuse to get away from his work. Ford headed toward the thermostat, frowning as he looked at the numbers. The thermostat was already set to 70, though it felt more like 50 degrees inside his cabin, summer or no summer. Ford re-adjusted it to 75. He let out an irritated huff, his breath crystallizing in a white cloud. What was the matter with this stupid thing?

The phone rang. Ford groaned. It was Shermie. He knew it was Shermie. Ford had promised to call him the moment he made it home, but he had forgotten. He thought about ignoring it, not wanting to deal with a lecture. Shermie was becoming more and more of a worried old hen. _Suck it up and deal with it, Stanford_ , he thought. Shermie was going through a lot, with Stan and the new baby. It was normal, natural even, for him to worry. Ford headed back into the kitchen where the telephone was mounted onto the wall, barking out a rough "Hello?" Ford winced; he hadn't meant to sound so harsh.

Nothing. No answer. Ford tried again, gentler this time, "Hello?"

Not a sound came through.

Ford's heart thumped inside his chest. It was the prank caller all over again, the prank caller he knew now had been Stanley. Ford licked his chapped lips and whispered, "Stanley?" His breath puffing against the receiver.

He waited and then… Dial tone. Ford kept the phone against his ear, hoping he might be able to hear something… Anything.

But whoever it was had hung up. Ford tried to cling to the scientist in him, to remind himself that not every strange happening in this town was caused by something supernatural. He wandered back to the thermostat and cranked it up a few more notches. _Ghosts naturally affect the ambient temperatures around them, especially when attempting to manipulate the physical world_ , Ford thought.

Ford looked back at his desk, too antsy to sit and work. He paced in circles. There were perfectly mundane reasons for everything that was happening. The human brain had a tendency to see patterns when there wasn't one.

The cold room. _This is a badly insulated shack in the middle of a forest in Oregon_.

The water. Stanley had been trapped beneath a swamp for months. If it had been Ford, he'd have issues with water too. _Did you remember to pay your water bill before you left?_

The phone call. It was just like all those times before… _Why would Stanley even_ **_want_ ** _to contact you?_

Ford stopped his pacing. He swallowed thickly. All those times… why hadn't he ever said anything? It was so easy for Ford to imagine himself forgiving everything and welcoming his brother back with open arms now that he was gone. Fantasies played out inside his head in the dead of night, of Stanley trusting Ford enough to speak, of Ford reaching out first. He let out a rueful laugh; he doubted it would have gone as smoothly as that.

He'd give anything for a second chance.

Ford raced upstairs. He threw open his suitcase and tossed out his wrinkled clothing, digging through the layers until he found the Ouija board his mother had given him. In the bottom left hand corner of the box were the words _Made by Mattel. For ages 8 and up_.

He found a couple of candles in a drawer and headed back downstairs into the living room, kicking the various papers and unopened pieces of mail out of his way. The sun was setting and it bathed the entire room in a warm, red glow.

He grabbed a roll of duct tape and taped down a pentagram across his carpet, lighting a candle at each one of its points. He settled down in the middle, the Ouija board in front of him and his hands on the cheap, plastic indicator. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Stanley?"

Nothing happened. Not that he was surprised. If Ford was a ghost and someone tried to summon him with a piece of cardboard stamped with _Mattel_ he wouldn't show up either. Either use rosewood or don't bother trying at all.

"I know I'm trying to contact you with the supernatural equivalent of a Barbie telephone for toddlers," he continued. "But we both know you never really had style--" Great. Just perfect. Insulting dead people. No wonder Stan didn't want to talk to him. "--I mean that in the best way! I-- ugh, let me start over. I-I want to help you. I want to know what happened to you." Ford took another deep breath. "I want to know the person my twin became. I want to know everything I missed. I-- I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Please. Please talk to me."

Something crashed. Ford wrenched his eyes open at the sound of glass shattering from somewhere in the kitchen. The sun had slipped beneath the horizon and the only light was the soft glow from the candles.

Ford edged toward the kitchen. He peeked around the corner and saw the remains of his glass, the one he had left on the counter, scattered across the tile. The cabinet doors were all open and the kitchen door drifted open with a creak. Ford stepped over the broken glass, letting his hand rest on the doorknob as he stared out into the dark forest.

He thought he saw a flash of red through the trees. It looked like a man, wearing a red jacket.

He wanted to call out, but the sound strangled and died in his throat. In an instant it was gone. Vanished.

Ford stepped backward, the glass crunching beneath his shoes as he stumbled back into the living room, his breath coming out in erratic puffs of white. _This is what you wanted, remember?_ This was Stanley. There was nothing to be afraid of.

His foot landed on a piece of a paper and he nearly slipped as it slid along the carpet, out from underneath him. With a muffled curse, he reached down and grabbed the paper, ready to ball it up and hurl it into the nearest trash can when he saw it was an unopened envelope in a pale shade of pink.

He ripped it open. _Stanford Pines, this is our third attempt to contact you. Your payment for Oregon Natural Gas is past due. If it is not received within two weeks, your gas will be shut off_ \--

The reason why it was so cold wasn't because of a ghost, it was because he didn't have any damn heat. A vicious laugh tore through his chest. Of course, _of fucking course_. Stanley wasn't trying to contact him. He didn't _want_ to talk to Ford.

Ford flicked the light switch, grateful that he still had electricity, blew out the candles, and started picking up the mess he made. Meanwhile the anger festered in his gut, churning and twisting. Why didn't Stan say anything?! All those times he had called! It wasn't fair! This wasn't how their lives were supposed to go! Ford was supposed to become a famous scientist, he was supposed to show the world that he was _right_ , and they were _wrong_ , and Stanley would find out and Ford would prove to him that he had he had succeeded despite his own brother's sabotage, and Stan would apologize and-- and--

Ford had never really imagined what happened in the _after_ , after his triumph, after their reunion.

Ford collapsed into the chair beside his desk, his anger dissipating as his grief took hold once more. He started to sort through his papers and notes, moving automatically without much thought. He looked at the one with the incantation scribbled on it and shrugged. Why not? A distraction was just what he needed. "Triangulum, entagulum," he said aloud to the empty room. "Veneforis dominus ventium. Veneforis venetisarium."

The color drained from the room, like the old television back home he used to watch with Stanley. Filbrick had been too cheap to buy a color TV when they first became available. Ford hadn't even known _Star Trek_ was filmed in color until college. Ford stood frozen in the colorless room, curious and a little nervous and incredibly excited at what was happening.

The diamond pattern on the throw blanket began to glow. The only color in the room, they hummed with a bright, happy yellow flash. An eye blinked -- or, or maybe winked? -- and with a cartoony _pop!_ one of the triangles broke free.

"Well, we'll, we'll," it… said? It didn't have a mouth. The sound just emanated from it. "You've been busy these past couple of weeks. Denial, acceptance, depression, anger…" He ticked off the Five Stages of Grief on his fingers, new fingers sprouting as he ran out. "You'd make any psych professor proud! All you're missing is bargaining, but I'm sure we'll come around to that one in time, eh Sixer?"


	6. Chapter 6

Ford leaned back in his chair, watching the clocks drift past. There was a chessboard in front of him. Bill was waiting for his next move, his single eye turned up in such a way that Ford thought it might be a smile. He was entirely sure how he had gotten here, but he'd be damned if he wasn't intrigued.

Ford moved his pawn forward. "What are you, if I might ask? Not to be rude--"

Bill waved off his concerns. "An interdimensional being from the realm of dreams. Humans have called me a god, a muse, a psychopomp."

Bill's eye crinkle in amusement at Ford's half-bitten gasp. He tried to school his features into something more neutral. He'd have to play this carefully, but… _a psychopomp!_ If such a thing actually existed… "You don't look like Hermes," Ford pointed out. Hermes, the trickster god of travelers and thieves, was also the Psychopomp for the ancient Greeks, a guide to lead departed souls into the Underworld.

Ford looked up from the chessboard, only to find Bill gone and in his place was a handsome, naked youth wearing a cloak and winged sandals. "I can look however I want," the man said and Ford instantly recognized his voice as _Bill_. "I prefer a more geometric shape myself, but Pythagoras just wouldn't stop _screaming_."

With a _pop!_ he compressed himself back into his original shape, bowtie and all, and moved his queen three spaces to the left. "But you're smarter than Pythagoras ever was. I knew you'd be able to handle my true form."

Ford couldn't stop himself from glowing with pride. "How do you know so much about me?"

"I know everything that happens here. Weeeeellll…. Almost everything. Wherever my image is engraved, at least. I use it as a window."

"Then, maybe you know what happened to my brother, who killed him." Ford tried to sound nonchalant, but he couldn't bring himself to look at Bill and kept his eyes on the chessboard.

Bill didn't say anything for a few minutes. "I didn't see what happened _exactly_ …" He said, his voice careful. "But I did see something you might find... interesting."

"What?" Ford demanded.

The chessboard and the clocks were gone. Ford found himself inside the Georgia police station again, looking exactly the same as it had a few weeks ago except for a couple of children's drawings of turkeys taped up on a few desks. People were rushing around him, _through_ him, never once noticing the stranger that had suddenly appeared.

"Thanks, just what I needed."

Ford gave a start. He knew that voice. Ford turned and saw Detective Lawson walking toward him. No, not _him_. To the policeman behind him. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with short brown hair, maybe only a few years younger than Ford. The policeman handed Lawson a cup of coffee and a dollar and some change. Ford looked at the dollar. The Eye of Providence looked… strange. Was that... a little bowtie and top hat? It winked at him. "And your change," the man said as he passed Lawson the dollar.

"Thanks, Cliff," Lawson said.

"Heard you had to drag someone into the drunk tank last night."

Lawson laughed. "Yeah, guy tried shoplifting a whole Thanksgiving turkey in his jacket. I was almost impressed. Oh," he laughed again. "And his license said his name was _Andrew Alcatraz_."

Cliff looked shocked. "Andrew Alcatraz?"

"Yeah, can you believe it? Guy wasn't even trying when he came up with that one."

Cliff gave a weak laugh. "I'll see you around, I gotta--" Cliff gestured to the desks in the front room.

Lawson waved him off and started walking down a hall. After a moment, Ford followed him.

He trailed Lawson to a small cell. There was someone lying down on the bench, his back towards Ford. His hair was brown and ratty, the ends brushing the top of his collar, but it was the jacket that caught Ford's attention. It was red and dirty and just like the one in the photograph, except the sleeves were whole and uncut. Ford felt his breath hitch. Lawson knocked on the bars and leaned over.

Stanley turned his head and glared up at Lawson. Ford took in his brother's face, older and rougher and bruised. "You sober enough to walk?" Lawson asked.

"Yeah…"

"Come on, then, you want to call someone?"

Stan pulled himself to his feet. "Eh, might as well. It's not like I got anything better to do."

Stan dragged himself up, taking a moment to yawn and stretch, dragging out the minutes. He was toying with Lawson, deliberately wasting his time. Ford couldn't help but crack a smile at that. It was Junior year with Coach Stevens all over again.

Lawson let out a snort, well aware of what Stan was doing. "You practice at being this annoying?"

Stan flashed him a smile. "Nah, I come by it natural."

Lawson gave an exagerrated bow as Stan stepped out of the cell, like a maître d' at a fancy French restaurant. Stan sauntered through, giving Lawson a curious look. "No cuffs?"

"You planning on stealing something else on the way to the phone?"

"Depends, what d'ya got?"

Lawson led Stan over to a telephone that had been mounted onto the wall. Stanley placed the receiver against his ear and with practiced, unhurried movements he rotated the numbers, each one making a _grrr-chink!_ noise as the rotary sped back around to 0. Lawson told him that Stan had called him that day he was arrested, but actually seeing his number spin around sucked the air from Ford's lungs. Stan didn't look much better. His face grew longer, paler, his fingers nervously twisting themselves around the cord as it started to ring.

_'Hello, Stanford Pines speaking.'_

Sheer panic crossed Stanley's face and he slammed the receiver back down. "Uhh," he looked back at Lawson and gave a shaky smile. "No one was home."

"Uh-huh," Lawson said as he eyed Stan. "You want me to give you the number of a bondsman to call?"

"Eh, no one's gonna stick their neck out for me. I'm a known runner."

Lawson barked out a laugh. "Well, at least you're honest about it. Bail is $5,000. You got anybody who can put up the money? Anyone at all?"

Stan shrugged. "I haven't got nobody." Ford wanted to shake him by his shoulders and scream, _You've got me!_

"We'll have to transfer you to county jail then until sentencing."

"Yeah, yeah," Stan waved him off. "I know the drill."

Lawson took him by the elbow and guided him back to his cell. Just as he was shutting the door Cliff with the Coffee appeared. "Oh, Detective, I didn't realize you were here."

"Something you need, Cliff?"

"Just, uh, Alcatraz is free to go."

Lawson and Stan gave him twin looks of confusion. "What do you mean he's free to go?" Lawson demanded.

"Someone posted his bail."

"Who?" Stanley asked.

Cliff shrugged. "Gave his name as Richard Richardson."

Predictably, Stan started laughing. Lawson looked almost disgusted. "A Dick Dickson came in and dropped $5,000 on this lowlife?" He turned to Stan. "No offense."

Stan wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still giggling, and shrugged. "None taken."

Lawson shook his head. "Who comes up with these fake names?"

"You don't know it's a fake," Cliff pointed out.

Lawson threw him a dirty look, then opened the cell door again, gesturing for Stan to come out. "Come on, then. Get out. I wash my hands of all this. It's no skin off my nose."

Ford blinked and the station was gone. The chessboard was back and Ford looked down at the pieces. If he didn't know any better, he'd say the pieces had been re-arranged in Bill's favor. Which was ridiculous because why would an immortal, near-omniscient being need to cheat at chess? Ford ran his fingers over the bishop as his thoughts churned over what he had just seen. "Who posted his bail?" Ford asked.

Bill gave him a sorrowful look. At least, that's how Ford interpreted the downturned corners of his eye. "I don't know. I asked Stanley, but not even he knows."

Ford felt his heart leap into his throat. " _What do you mean, you asked Stanley?_ "

Bill waved his hand. "Well, he's here. In your house, I mean. Stuck between dimensions. Humans call them ghosts or souls, but it's more complicated than that. When humans die, all the leftover bits drift between universes before settling some place new. But, sometimes, they get… stuck. I help out when I can, guiding them through, but there's nothing I can do when they don't want to go."

"Stanley doesn't want to go," Ford breathed.

"He wants to talk to you -- and _only_ you -- says it's important. I offered to act as a go-between but he wouldn't take me up on it."

"Is there--Can I--" Ford struggled with his words, too busy trying to wrap his head around _Stan was here_ and _Stan wanted to talk to him_. "I want to talk to him. The Ouija board--"

Bill laughed and Ford flinched at the disdain in his voice, his fingers curling into his palms in attempt to hide them. The laugh brought him right back to his childhood. It sounded just like Crampelter's laugh. _Get over it_ , Ford chastised himself, and forced his hands to relax. Bill was nigh omnipotent. He was lucky he deemed to speak to Ford at all. He probably didn't mean for it to sound so cruel. Ford's questions must sound as silly and stupid as a child's to him.

"Oh, you got me, a _Ouija board_!" He laughed some more. "You might as well use it as a paperweight! Haha, but no, seriously, you can't talk to him. Not unless you build an inter-dimensional portal or something. And Stanley… well, he can still manipulate his surroundings to a degree, but that won't last long. He's degrading and all that will be left is an after-image."

Ford's mind was running at a hundred miles a minute, picking up and quickly discarding each thought as they came to him. _What if-- no, too unstable. But I can--where would I get my hands on the materials?_ A portal, Bill said. An inter-dimensional portal. If Ford could use it to _talk_ to Stanley, then there shouldn't be any reason why he couldn't just _take Stanley back_. Pull him back from the in-between and plant him firmly in _this_ dimension. It could be done, Ford was sure of it, but he wasn't an engineer-- maybe Fiddleford would help? Of course, Ford would also need to build something to house Stanley. Just pulling his essence back into this dimension wouldn't be enough. He might slip through again. Well, Fiddleford always did want to build robots.

Ford looked up at Bill who stared blandly back at him. He seemed almost… naive. Innocent. How much of human nature did he understand? Ford wondered what Bill would think if he knew the plans he was making. He had called himself a psychopomp. What Ford wanted to do -- bring back Stanley, not for a talk but to _keep_ \-- that was the antithesis of what a psychopomp was meant to do. "I could build the portal," Ford said. "Then I could talk to Stan."

Bill narrowed his eye. "But… just to talk, right?"

Ford laughed nervously, wiping at the sweat that had gathered at his brow-- and how could he sweat in this dream space anyway? "Of-of course! Why, to do anything else would go against the laws of nature!"

Bill's eye twitched and Ford thought it might be a grin. "Then I'll help! I'm a sucker for happy endings. I'll tell you what, if you give me access to your body, I can speak to you more freely. In the dream realm, I'm limited, but with a body I can provide the know-how you'll need to pull this off. What do you say?" He held out his hand and blue flames erupted from it. "Have we got a deal?"

Ford hesitated. "My body… what does that mean exactly? Will you be able to read my thoughts?"

"Not really. I can only 'operate' -- for lack of a better word -- while you sleep. So, dreams, some memories, I can access that, but not your waking thoughts."

Then his plan would be safe. Bill wouldn't find out. Ford smiled and the little Stan voice that sat in the back of his head said, _Don't look so eager. You'll show your hand_. "Alright, until the portal is finished, you can share my body." He grasped Bill's hand and the blue flames felt cool and soothing as they traveled up his arm.

Bill's eye turned upward into a smile.


	7. Chapter 7

Ford woke up face down on his desk, his notes glued to his cheek with a bit of drool. He peeled off the sheet of paper and squinted at it. There were calculations for the portal, calculations he didn't remember writing. It must have been Bill. When he told Ford he would "operate" while he slept, he hadn't realized he meant to _operate him_ like he was a machine. It was… a little unnerving, but all Bill had done so far was make notes and calculations, correcting Ford's mistakes wherever he found them. He seemed harmless and like he genuinely wanted to help. Ford shrugged and left the notes in search of coffee; whatever hesitation he might feel about Bill was just a result of his human propriety. _Think of it as a cultural misunderstanding_ , Ford told himself as he wandered into the kitchen.

He grabbed a cup from the cabinet, pausing a moment to stare at his sink. The water was running again, if the steady _drip drip drip_ from the faucet was any indication, but now the drain appeared to be clogged. The sink was half full of stagnant water.

"Stan, if this is you trying to tell me something," Ford whispered. "I need help understanding. Could you… pick up a pencil? Write it down?"

The house was silent, save the muffled sounds of birds chirping and the _drip drip drip_. Ford watched the dust motes float in the morning sun and waited. The minutes ticked by and Ford let himself relax. If Stan was able to write he would have done it already. Ford chewed on his lip. Bill said he was degrading.

Ford needed to get back to work. Every minute wasted was another minute closer to losing Stan forever. Ford set down his mug and grabbed a plunger from underneath his sink. He started plunging, noting with mounting frustration that the water refused to drain. He yanked the plunger free, rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, and stuck two fingers inside the drain to see if he could find the problem himself. He managed to snag something and with a tug he pulled it free. The water started spiraling down. Ford lifted his hand and saw it covered in brown webs, crisscrossing over his palm. It took him a moment to recognize it as _hair_. He kept pulling. Chunks of torn and bloody flesh hung below--

Ford wrench himself off his desk as the knocking on his front door grew louder, his eyes flying open with fear. A dream… or, or a _message_. Ford sucked in a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Bill's calculations from last night were stuck to his cheek. He peeled them off, scrubbing his mouth with his sleeve to remove all lingering traces of drool as he hurried to the front door. He opened it to find Fiddleford, suitcase in hand and a banjo strapped across his back.

Fidds cracked a grin at the sight of Ford. "Did you just wake up? Ford, it's _noon_."

"I worked late last night," Ford answered stiffly.

"Still burning the candle at both ends I see."

"Lecture later, work now." Ford grabbed his bag and pushed him inside, ignoring Fiddleford's squawking. "Living room. Kitchen. Bathroom. Guest bedroom is down the hall. Have you eaten? Good. Let's get started."

"Where's the fire?" Fiddleford demanded, looking a little bewildered and very irritated by Ford's whirlwind tour.

"We're on a time crunch. There are… certain perishable components involved."

"Fine, but you promised me robots."

Ford lit up. "I _did_. You can put all the bells and whistles you want on it, but I want it roughly human shape." Ford thought for a moment. "And nothing that can be considered a weapon."

"So, no lasers then?" Fiddleford pouted.

 _Stanley_ with _lasers_? "Definitely not."

Fiddleford looked around the small hills of paper left scattered around the living room. He picked up one and Ford watched his half-amused, half-vexed expression slipped from his face as he stared at the calculations Bill had written down for him. "What exactly are you trying to do here?" Fiddleford asked, his voice tinged with that excited curiosity that had drawn Ford to him back when they were in college.

Ford rocked up onto the balls of his feet, feeling that mounting excitement himself. "An inter-dimensional portal."

"Be serious."

"I _am_ serious. Don't tell me you don't believe in parallel universes."

"Of course I do, I'm a devoted follower of Hugh Everett. But--" Fiddleford sputtered. "Humanity just doesn't possess the capablity right now--"

"Oh, Gravity Falls can provide well beyond than just what _humanity_ can offer." Ford spun around and pulled open the front door. "Get your coat. We're going on a little adventure."

The woods were quiet as he took Fiddleford down one of the well-worn paths. Ford would almost describe the forest as _shy_. The forest knew Stanford; he had earned their well-kept secrets, but Fiddleford was a strange interloper. Fidds trailed along behind him, huffing a little as he struggled to keep up on those long sticks he called legs. "It's not... that I'm not enjoying... our little nature walk..." Fiddleford puffed. "But… is our destination… much farther?"

Ford threw him a smile. "I thought you grew up in the Appalachian countryside. Are you telling me you can't handle a little hike?"

"Stanford… I left that holler… the moment I turned 18… for _New Jersey_ … of all places… that should tell you… exactly what I think… of country life. You ever tried… milking a cow… in the snow… and its damn tail… full of burs and manure… keeps slapping you… in the face? I want… suburbs as far as the eye can see… store bought groceries… central air and heating... robot servants…"

"And yet you still insist on playing that damn banjo," Ford grumbled, glaring at the instrument that was still strung across his back.

"You… don't know… good music."

Ford thought that point could be debated, but he kept his peace as they had arrived at their destination. Fiddleford braced his hands against his knees as he caught his breath. Ford pointed at the strange cliff formations in front of them. "Do you see that?"

"The rocks?" Fidds gripped. "Very nice, I'm sure. I didn't take geology myself." Then he added, in a song-song voice under his breath, the little song the engineering students used to taunt the geologists with. "Rocks are for jocks."

Ford grinned. "It's not a natural formation. Something plowed _through it_."

Fiddleford looked at the cliffs, squinting his eyes against the afternoon sun. "Must have been something big."

"Oh, it was." Ford tapped his foot against the metal hull of the spaceship lying beneath them. He watched Fiddleford's eyes grow wide, and with all the pomp of a world-class magician Ford threw back the camouflaged tarp he used to hide the entrance. "I discovered this a few years ago. This is where we'll be getting our materials. Want to take a look?" Ford grinned up at him and with a flick of his wrist threw open the hatch. "After you."

Fiddleford was vibrating with excitement as he hurried down the ladder. Ford followed after him, pointing out what he discovered, his theories. At first, Fidds shot off question after question, barely pausing to take a breath. But as the tour continued, he grew quieter. More thoughtful, his gaze a million miles away. Ford nervously shifted his feet, watching his long time friend. "We should head back. We don't want to be stuck out in the woods when the sun goes down."

He climbed back up the ladder, before turning around to offer a hand to Fiddleford. He grasped it, letting Ford help him up. He didn't say anything as they started their trek back to the house.

"So," Ford asked, trying to gauge his feelings. "Do you have higher hopes for the project?"

"Yeah, but…" Fiddleford but his lip. "Stanford, why haven't you told anybody about this? You have proof of extraterrestrial life. Do you understand the gravity of this?"

Stanford whirled around, throwing up his arms. "Aliens are only the tip of the iceberg. There is an entire _ecosystem_ of anomalous life right here in these woods! I have to protect it, I won't let it be destroyed in mankind's pursuit of power!"

Fiddleford frowned. "Anomalous life? What do you mean by that?"

Ford pulled out his journal, thrusting it into Fiddleford's face. "Vampires, werewolves, dinosaurs," Ford took a breath. "Even ghosts. They're all drawn to this spot."

Fiddleford took the journal, frowning as he adjusted his glasses. He flipped through the pages. "Aliens are one thing, but gnomes? Eyebats? Zombies? You actually believe that if I say the words _Corpus levitas, Diablo Dominium Mundo vicium_ that the dead will actually rise?"

Ford stared at his friend, a man who had stuck by him and helped him through the bad times in college, took a deep breath and said, "Oh, you son of a bitch."

A decayed, green-tinged hand erupted from the ground near their feet and Fiddleford let out an ear-piercing shriek. Ford grabbed him by his sleeve and _pulled_ , almost dragging him through the forest and back to the cabin as Gravity Falls heaved up its dead.

During his first encounter with the undead, the sheer amount of corpses hidden beneath the sprawling forest had amazed Ford. At least, until he realized he needed to do something before he _became_ one of those corpses.

He needed to get back to the cabin. He needed to reach the radio. He needed--

Ford skidded to a halt as a zombie lunged at him, ducking back out of the way as it made to swipe him. _Rule one of boxing, don't get hit,_ the Stan voice said in the back of his head. He had said that once, right before Ford had quit boxing for good.

 _You should learn to take your own advice_ , Ford had shot back.

Stan had just laughed, then groaned as it had pulled at his split lip.

The zombie in front of him was wearing what had once been a fairly nice suit, now hanging in tatters off of its emaciated frame. No, no tatters, Ford realized as his eyes caught the glint of metal sticking throughout the material. The suit had been deliberately cut, from the wrists to the armpits and up through the middle of the back, and then pinned together again on the corpse.

A tree branch collided into the side of its face with enough force to detach its head and send it rolling. Fiddleford stood in front of him, wielding his stick like a club, and screamed, "What're you doing just standing here daydreaming? Move!"

Ford shook himself back to the present, managing to gasp out, "We need my radio."

"We need a _gun_ ," Fiddleford growled.

"You don't understand, that won't kill them! Only a 3-part harmony can destroy them!"

Fiddleford skidded to a halt, narrowly avoiding a zombie as it swung outward. The zombie couldn't stop its own momentum and it landed hard at their feet. Fiddleford turned to look at him, tree branch hanging limp in his hand. "You're _kidding_."

Ford jumped over the sprawled zombie. It went after his ankle and Ford delivered a swift kick to its soft, half-rotted jaw. "Of course not! This is a serious predicament you've gotten us in!"

Fiddleford unhooked his banjo from his back and was already starting to pluck at it.

"No," Ford begged. "Please, don't."

"We gotta get rid of the zombies, Ford."

"It's-- it needs to be a 3-part harmony!" Ford protested.

"Ol' Bess here can serve for the melody. That's the middle part. You and I can sing the other two." Fiddleford grinned at him as he plucked at the strings. "I know you know this song."

" _Because you used it to torture me every day at Backupsmore_ _!_ "

Fiddleford ignored him, already singing the chorus. "Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Joleeeeene."

Ford sighed, looked at the shambling horde swarming behind them, took a deep breath and belted, "Please don't take him just because you caaaaaaaaaan!"

* * *

Fiddleford stumbled out of the guest bedroom. His tongue felt thick and heavy, his head woolly with the threat of an oncoming headache. His throat was a little sore with how loud he'd been singing last night. He had wanted to make sure every last zombie bastard was dead and gone.

He managed to make his way into the kitchen, only to stop dead at the sight in front of him. Every single cabinet door was flung wide open and about nine wee little men were standing on each other's shoulders. They had white, bushy beards and their red coats matched their pointed hats. Their leader -- standing head and shoulders above the rest (ha!) -- was clutching a jar of peanut butter and, at the sight of Fiddleford, dug his heels into the little man supporting him like he was a horse, and cried, "Ride, Shmebulock! Ride!"

The tower of tiny men pitched forward, wobbling dangerously as they flung themselves out the kitchen door, towards the woods. He watched the spot of red bob between the trees until it disappeared.

Fiddleford reached for a coffee cup. Gravity Falls was certainly an interesting place.


	8. Chapter 8

“I just don’t think it’s necessary,” Ford insisted, batting away a clock that had floated a little too close to his face. “Not to mention costly. This isn’t what the grant money was meant to be used for.” 

Bill waved him off. “Your basement was tiny! For the portal to work, it needs to be _big._ _Real big_ _._ If it’s too small it’ll become unstable and then there’ll an explosion, lots of people will die, yada yada yada, Oregon will be a smear in the Pacific Ocean, blah blah blah.” He nudged his bishop forward, checking Ford's king. 

Ford took his bishop with a pawn. “Okay, yes, we don’t want that,” Ford admitted. “It’s just...” 

“It’s just what, Sixer?” 

Ford felt his cheek twitch. “I’ve gotten used to you using my body to work on the portal, but I’m not entirely comfortable with the thought of you... interacting with people as though you were me.” 

Bill’s eye widened with shock. “I don’t understand. What’s wrong with me talking to other people?” 

“That’s not--” Ford tried to clarify. He felt a stab of guilt at how despondent Bill looked. 

“Did I say something wrong? Did I blink too much? Too little? I'm not used to a human body and you’re the first person I’ve talked to in centuries! I’m a little rusty.” 

Ford struggled to break through, to make Bill understand. “It’s... See, you’re _not_ me and pretending to be me... when there are other people--” 

“I just thought it’d be nice, talking to people, being out in the world again,” Bill sighed. “I’ve been alone for so long.” 

Ford buried his head in his hands. Great, now he felt like a heel. What did Bill do that was so wrong anyway? If Ford wanted this portal built, he needed to remodel his basement and Bill had managed to get the best construction company this side of Oregon dirt cheap. Ford wouldn’t have been able to do that, so really, he should probably be thankful Bill took the initiative. “Don’t worry about it,” Ford said. “It’s alright. What matters is the portal. Can you tell me about Stan? How he’s doing?” 

Bill’s eye grew pitying. “Not good. We need to get this portal finished and soon. He’s losing more of himself. I’d be careful, if I were you.” 

“Be careful?” Ford asked. “What do you mean by--” 

“Time’s up!” Bill leaned over and flicked Ford on the forehead, shooting him across the vastness of space and time and-- 

Right into his bed. Ford groaned and turned over, burying his head beneath his pillow as the muffled sounds of jackhammers echoed up from the basement. No good. He’d never be able to get back to sleep now. Ford kicked off his blankets and slung himself up. He was still wearing last night’s clothes. Bill must not have bothered to change into his pajamas. Oh well, one less thing for him to worry about. 

Fiddleford was already up and awake by the time Ford made it to the kitchen. He was fiddling with the thermostat with one hand, clutching at his coffee with the other. There were deep bags underneath his eyes as he stared at the numbers. “Dunno why you keep your house an ice box,” he muttered. 

“I don’t,” Ford answered as he reached for the pot. “It’s a ghost.” Empty. Did Fiddleford drink a whole pot by himself just this morning? 

“Uh-huh. Sure, Stanford. A ghost did it.” 

Ford shook his head as he started another pot. Just yesterday the man was headbutted by a faun, but suddenly a ghost was too unbelievable? The phone started to ring, but Ford ignored it, too intent on watching the coffee filter into the pot. He heard Fiddleford pick it up and say, “Stanford Pines' residence, Fiddleford McGucket speaking.... Uh, what do you mean who am I? _Who are you?..._ Oh! _You're_ Ford’s brother! Pleased to meet ya, I--” 

Ford snatched the phone away from Fiddleford before he even knew what he was doing. Was it Stan again? Was he actually communicating? Ford pressed the receiver against his ear so hard that it hurt. “... Hello?” 

_‘Ford! You didn’t tell me you had a friend!’_

Shermie. “Yes, Shermie, I’m not a complete recluse,” Ford ground out. Fiddleford stood next to him, grinning from ear to ear. 

_'I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just glad you’ve got somebody there with you. I was worried about you being up there all alone.’_

“I’m fine, Shermie, I’m doing good,” Ford reassured him. 

_‘I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come down to California, see the baby. Or we could go up there. Whichever would be easier for you. I’m sure you’ve been running yourself ragged and could use a little break.’_

“I, no, I’m sorry, I’ve got too much work to do.” 

_‘Come on, Ford, I haven’t_ _seen_ _you since the funeral.’_

Why did he have to bring up _that_? “I can’t. My work is much too important to just drop it on some whim!” 

For a moment the line was silent, and then, _‘Stanford, I’ve just lost one brother. You already feel like a stranger to me. I don’t want to wake up one day and find out you’re gone too without ever getting to know you.’_

Ford was shaking. He was gripping the receiver so hard that it _hurt_ because _how dare he_. _How dare he try to use Stanley to manipulate him_. “I have a lot of work to do,” Ford said slowly, breathing out through his nose. He wasn’t going to let his temper get the best of him. “I will speak to you later. I’m hanging up now.” 

Ford was very proud of himself when he managed to set the receiver gently back down onto its cradle instead of slamming it into the wall over and over again like he wanted to. 

Fiddleford wasn’t grinning any more. “Everything okay? You wanna talk about it?” 

“Everything’s fine,” Ford said, grabbing his now full pot of coffee. He poured a cup and drowned it, black. “Come on, we need some supplies for the robot.” 

Fiddleford looked at him dubiously but didn’t argue. “What kind of supplies?” 

“Unicorn hair.” 

“I think we should leave the mechanics to me.” 

“It’s necessary.” 

“Ford, we’re building a robot,” Fiddleford scoffed. “Not making a My Little Pony.” 

Ford held the front door for his friend as he tugged on his boots. “You remember when I said this project was time sensitive due to, uh, ‘perishable components’?” 

“Yes...” Fiddleford narrowed his eyes at Ford as he followed him into the woods. 

“Well, you see, the perishable component is a... a living being... well, okay, not _living_ , in a sense, but a sentient being nonetheless, and this dimension is... inhospitable.” 

“You’re... you’re going to use the robot to house this _thing_?” Fiddleford demanded. 

Ford bit his lip to keep from shouting, because _Stanley was not a thing._ "Yes. The unicorn hair will keep him contained inside it.” 

“Ford, that is completely insane. You’re going to use the portal to pull somethingout of it and then just... keep it? Like a pet? How do you know it isn’t dangerous?” 

“He isn’t dangerous!” Ford snapped. That wasn’t technically true. Stan could be dangerous when he wanted to be, but only to people who really deserved it. Like Crampelter. “And anyway, we agreed the robot wouldn’t have any weapons anyway.” 

Fiddleford didn’t say anything, just studied the sky as though he had never seen it before. 

Ford narrowed his eyes. “Right?” 

“Weeeellll...” 

“Fiddleford!” 

“One laser hardly even counts as a weapon! And, anyway, they’re very useful! I keep one in my toolkit next to the hammer!” Fiddleford jabbed an accusing finger at Ford. “And I wouldn’t have added it if _somebody_ wasn’t so damn secretive and just told me from the start that he was planning on kidnapping some extra-dimensional creature and shoving it inside!” 

Ford slapped his finger out of his face. “We’ll talk about this later. We’re here.” 

Fiddleford looked around the meadow. “Where’s the unicorns?” 

“I need to summon them.” He pulled out his journal and flipped to where he had transcribed the Druidic Deepest Chant. “I, uh, haven’t actually done this before. Please don’t laugh at me.” 

Ford coughed and, reaching deep within his chest, bellowed out the ancient Celtic script. Something undulated beneath the ground and with a groan the dirt and rock tore itself away, forming a garden wall in front of them with a door made of gold. The two men stared up in awe at it, and Ford cautiously reached out. He had barely touched the handle when the door swung open and a voice cried out from within, _"YOU DARE DEFILE THIS SACRED GROUND?”_

A unicorn stood before a waterfall, her rainbow-colored hair billowing softly in the cool breeze. Ford took a deep breath and stepped forward. “I apologize, but I urgently need your help. I’ve come to ask for a lock of your hair--” 

The unicorn shook her mane. It sparkled. “Only a maiden girl with a pure heart may take my hair! No other!” 

Fiddleford came up beside him. “A ‘maiden girl’?” He scoffed. “I don’t feel comfortable with that. I believe in women’s lib. A woman’s worth isn’t determined by her sexual history.” 

“It does seem medieval, doesn’t it?” Ford said. 

The unicorn seemed off-put by this sudden turn in conversation. “Fine, fine, she doesn’t have to be a maiden, but she does have to be a girl! No boys!” 

“What does being a girl have to do with purity?” Ford asked. “Is an infant male automatically less pure than a female serial killer by virtue of his gender?” 

The unicorn huffed. “Look, I don’t make the rules, I just follow them. You want my hair, find me a girl with a pure heart.” 

Ford looked to Fiddleford. “You think Emma-May's got a pure heart?” 

Fiddleford let out a hearty laugh. “I love Emma-May, but no. She’s liable to skin and eat a squirrel rather than sing to it like Snow White.” 

Ford turned back to the unicorn. “We don’t know any.” 

“Any what?” She asked. 

“Women with pure hearts.” 

“Well, exit is over there.” She flicked her head at the golden door as she trotted back to her spot by the waterfall. “Bye now.” 

“No, wait, you don’t understand.” Ford followed after her. “I need your hair. I--” He glanced over at Fiddleford and lowered his voice. “I’m doing this my for brother. I have to save him.” 

The unicorn snorted. “And you think that makes you _pure_ _?_ ” Her horn glowed ominously. “I can see into your very soul. It’s black. Rotten. You’re a bad person!” 

Ford jerked back, his guts twisting inside as he stared at her. She fluttered her long lashes and almost seemed to smile as she leaned forward. “Oh, what’s this? You look guilty! Did you do something to your brother? I bet he only needs saving because of something _you_ did!” 

Ford pushed himself away, stumbling back towards the door. “Let’s go,” he barked out. 

“But the hair--” Fiddleford protested. 

“ _Forget it_. We don’t need it.” 

“Nothing you do will ever make up for the bad deeds you’ve already done!” The unicorn called after him. “You’ll never be pure of heart!” The door slammed shut and with another groan the garden was swallowed back into the earth. 

“Stanford, just what exactly is going on?” Fiddleford asked. 

“Nothing!” 

“Don’t give me that. I heard that horse yammering about your brother, and after the phone call you had with him this morning--” 

“She wasn’t talking about _that_ brother,” Ford ground out. 

Fiddleford was silent as they continued their hike and then, quietly, “You got another brother?” 

Ford laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. “I have a twin.” 

“You’ve never talked about him before.” 

“I haven’t seen or spoken to him since we were seventeen. He broke my science project.” 

Fiddleford hummed. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Seems like such a little thing to go so long without talking.” 

“That project was my ticket to West Coast Tech! I was getting out of New Jersey and he couldn’t handle that. I was tired of him riding on my coattails, using me to coast through life!” The cabin was just up ahead. He sped up, not bothering to make sure Fiddleford was keeping up. 

“Okay, so that was nine years ago,” Fiddleford puffed out a breath. “What about now? What’s going on?” 

Ford reached the porch, but found his energy was gone. He sank down on the steps and braced his elbows on his knees. Fiddleford came up beside him, out of breath as he took a seat next to him. “He died,” Ford said. His voice didn’t waver; he was proud of that. “We buried him this June.” 

“I’m sorry. Is it... Can I ask how he died?” 

“Oh, he was murdered.” He could feel Fiddleford stiffen next to him. “From what the police told me, he was a grifter. It’s funny, he kept calling me, all through college and even when I moved here, and I always thought it was just a prank caller because he’d never say anything, and I keep wondering ‘what would have happened if he had said something?’ Or ‘what would have happened if he hadn’t been kicked out when he was seventeen?’ ‘What if I had tried reaching out to him?’ He’d probably still be alive.” 

“You can’t torture yourself with ‘what ifs,’” Fiddleford said. 

“I know.” Ford nodded his head. “I can’t change the past. I can only affect the present. Come on, we’ve got work to do.” He reached down and helped Fiddleford up. Fiddleford looked like he wanted to say something else, but what else was there? Ford didn’t want comfort. When he got Stanley back, he wouldn’t even need comfort. The only thing that would help now was finishing that portal. 

* * *

Ford rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the schematics in front of him. The basement was finally finished; the construction crew had been in such a hurry to leave they had left a few steel beams lying around. The gnomes prowling around the garbage cans had probably given them a fright. Still, one man’s loss was another man’s gain. They could use the leftover steel when constructing the portal. 

Fiddleford had long since crawled into bed. Ford glanced at his watch and saw that it was already four o’clock in the morning. He should get to bed too. 

Ford stood and stretched, working out the kinks in his back. He rubbed his arms, feeling a chill. It was always cold in the basement, but he looked around anyway, just in case... but there was nothing but stark gray walls and the single yellow light bulb casting a dim circle of light from above. Ford was about to head to the elevator when he saw him. 

A man, standing in the corner, half-covered in shadows. Ford could make out the black outline of his body, the slope of his shoulder. His heart thundered inside his chest as he took a step forward. “Stan?” He whispered. “Stanley, is that you? It’s me, Ford, can you hear me? Can you speak?” 

Stan shuffled forward, into the yellow light. His face was gone, his jaw ripped off from the blast of the gun, taking out the right side of his head. Ford stared at the mottled gray skin, the single white eye. He only looked at the picture once, but once had been enough to burn itself into his memory. Ford swallowed. “I’m going to help you, Stan. Do you understand? Stanley? Lee?” 

Stan didn’t answer, just continued his slow, shuffling pace as he inched closer and closer towards Ford. Fear wormed its way through Ford’s chest. _He won’t hurt you_ _,_ Ford chided. _This is Stanley_. _He won’t hurt you._ “Lee, please, do you see that pencil on the desk? Can you pick it up? Can you write? Stanley. Stanley.” 

Stan didn’t look at the pencil. He kept his single eye locked on Ford as he moved, one halting step after another. Bill had warned him to be careful, that Stan was losing more of himself. He wouldn’t... he wouldn’t try to hurt him, would he? Panic flooded through Ford. He turned and fled toward the elevator, slamming his hand against the button that would take him up, up. The little triangle button lit up and Ford could hear metal grind against metal as it made its slow descent. Too long, it was taking too long. Ford abandoned the elevator and threw himself into the shadows. He ran his hands across the wall, searching for the door that would take him to the small antechamber he had claimed as his meditation room. 

He grasped the doorknob, threw it open and found himself in... nothing. 

His meditation room was gone. He was in a void, black and endless. It wasn’t anything like the mindscape, where he met with Bill. This was... something different. 

The door was gone. Ford turned in a circle, trying to figure out an exit when he heard a zipping sound. _Ziiiiiiiiipppp_ _!_ And then there was a light. Ford shielded his eyes and saw Stan. Not the half-rotted ghost from before, but _Stan_ _._ He looked like he had in Bill’s memory. Ratty hair, bruised face, and _alive_ _._ There was a smile on Stan’s face, but it wasn’t a happy one. It looked hard and bitter and it turned Ford’s stomach to see it. “Guess the bastard wasn’t lying after all,” Stan said and laughed. 

Ford felt himself go flying as _something_ pulled him, out, away, and the meditation room was back and Stan was gone. Ford breathed heavily through his nose and wiped away the sweat that had gathered at his brow. Everything seemed... quiet. He cautiously opened the door and peeked out, but the ghost was gone. The only sound was the soft _ding!_ of the elevator as the doors finally opened. 


	9. Chapter 9

Everyone was mad at him and Ford couldn't figure out why.

Bill was standoffish. He didn't say much during their sessions, just stared at him while they played. Ford thought it might have been because he had checked him twice now, and really, you'd think an immortal psychopomp could lose with a little more grace.

Fiddleford… Fiddleford was a different story.

"Why don't you take a break?" He asked. Ford didn't look up from his calculations. He couldn't afford to waste any more time. "You've been awake for three days now," Fiddleford pressed a little harder.

He hadn't. He had slept a full five hours each night, and while he slept Bill was there to pick up the slack. "I'm fine."

"You're _not,_ " Fiddleford snapped. He jumped to his feet and headed to the elevator. "I'm going to town to get some groceries."

He was going to town to get away from _Ford_. Ford could recognize when people were trying to avoid him, he'd seen it often enough.

He heard the elevator, heard it ding and Fiddleford muttering to himself as he got on -- _crazy, stubborn bastard, this isn't what I signed up for_ \-- the doors close and Fiddeleford was gone. Ford looked up at the portal. They'd be able to test it in a day or two, and it'd all be worth it when he got Stan back.

_Guess the bastard wasn't lying after all._

Ford couldn't stop thinking about it. What had Stan meant by that? Who was he talking about? As far as Ford knew, the only person Stan had interacted with since his death was Bill. Was there something else here? Another spirit? There _had_ been something else in the void with them, something that had wanted Ford _out_.

Ford felt as if he had been given a box of puzzle pieces, only to discover that none of them fit. There was really only one solution to this problem: finish the portal, talk to Stan. Get him back.

There was a shuffling noise somewhere behind him, of feet dragging themselves across a concrete floor. Ford tried to keep his eyes on the white paper, on the colorless gray walls cast in yellow light, anything but what was behind him. He pointedly ignored the spiking fear and kept writing. "Stanley," he chided, like they were fourteen and Stan had accidentally knocked something off of a shelf in their father's shop. "I'm not going to engage with you until you talk to me _properly_. I know you can do it. You did it before. Remember? 'Guess the bastard wasn't lying after all'? If you talk to me like that, I'll turn around."

The shuffling stopped. Ford felt his breath hitch as he waited and then… nothing. Ford yanked around on his stool, but the room was empty. Stan was gone.

* * *

"Ready?" Ford asked.

Fiddleford grimaced. "For a relative value of 'ready', yes."

"Close enough!" Ford adjusted the safety goggles on his head and got the testing dummy into position. The robot Fiddleford had built was across the room, covered with a sheet, but without unicorn hair Ford was unsure how long Stan could remain inside without… _slipping through_ , as Bill had put it. Ford had designed this first test to see how material objects were affected when exposed to the nonmaterial plane. With more data, he might figure out another way of keeping Stan rooted to this world.

Fiddleford had a hold on the rope they had tied to the dummy, ready to pull it back in when Ford gave the signal. Ford hurried back to the controls. "Activating the portal… now!"

The light was blinding. Worse was the _sound._ There was a humming that shot straight through his bones and made his teeth vibrate inside his skull. His hands were shaking, or… or the basement was. Ford held on and gritted his teeth, forcing himself to look at the portal and saw--

Fiddleford! Fiddleford's leg had gotten tangeled in the rope. The portal was sucking him in!

"I've got you!" Ford abandoned the controls and raced toward his friend. He managed to snag the rope just as Fiddleford's head breached the horizon and with a hard tug, pulled him free.

After five minutes without Ford to helm the controls, the emergency shut-down activated. The light disappeared and Fiddleford plummeted to the ground. Ford rolled him onto his back. The man's pupils were blown wide and he was muttering something Ford couldn't understand. "What is it? Is it working? What did you see?" Fiddleford didn't answer and Ford pulled at his arm, yanking up his sleeve to check his pulse. It was going a mile a minute. "Fiddleford?"

Fiddleford jerked upward. "When gravity falls and earth becomes sky, fear the beast with just one eye."

"Fiddleford!" He grapped his shoulder. "Get a hold of yourself! You're not making any sense!"

Fiddleford jerked away from him and stumbled to his feet. "This machine is dangerous. You'll bring about the end of the world with it. Destroy it before it destroys us all!"

Ford gasped at him. Destroy the portal and consign Stan to… to _nothingness_? "I can't destroy it! It-- You don't understand how important this is!"

Fiddleford turned to look back at him. "I fear we've unleashed a grave danger onto this world, one I'd rather forget." He took a deep breath. "I quit!"

Ford stood there slack-jawed as he watched Fiddleford head for the elevator. "Fine!" He screamed. "I'll do it without you! I don't need you! I don't need anyone!" _Sixer…_ Ford jerked around, trying to find the source of the voice. "What? Who said that?" Was it Stanley? Oh God, Stanley!

Ford ran to the elevator and threw his arm between the door and the wall, stopping it from closing. He pushed his way in, crowding Fiddleford. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean what I said! I need your help! I need the portal to save Stan!"

Fiddleford looked up at him. "How could anything help him now?" He demanded.

"He's here," Ford whispered.

"Your… dead twin?"

"He's a ghost."

The elevator doors opened up to the cabin and Fiddleford stormed out. "There isn't any ghost, Stanford!"

Ford went after him. "After everything you've seen, you honestly don't believe in ghosts? Strange things happen, the cold temperature--"

Fiddleford whirled around. "That was you! You come down here every night and fiddle with the thermostat!"

"What?" Ford asked, losing some of his steam. "No, I don't."

"Yes. You do." And then, under his breath, "That's not the only crazy things you do at night."

"But I saw him," Ford insisted. "The first time was after I had used the Ouija board. I heard a noise in the kitchen and when I came in all the cabinet doors had been thrown open and there was a man running into the woods. He was wearing a red jacket."

"You mean the gnomes?" Fiddleford scoffed. "Yeah, I've seen them too. They kind of look like a man from a distance when they're standing on top of each other like that."

Ford shook his head. "No, _no_. I saw him mutilated, down in the basement... _he was coming right to me_!"

"And when did this happen?" Fiddleford demanded. "After you started work on the portal?" He shook his head. "You're a scientist, Stanford! Look around you! Look at the evidence! There's no ghost, _it's just you_."

Fiddleford turned and fled, the front door slamming behind him

He was wrong. He was wrong. Stanley was here. He could feel it. He was--

Right behind him.

The shuffling sound was back, the slow, awkward gait of Stanley's corpse trying to reach him. Ford's breaths were coming fast as he stared straight ahead at the dull, gray door, the sickly yellow light of the lamp, the dark shadows that had sprung up around him despite the bright sunny day.

Ford ran, into the shadows and down the hall, searching for his bedroom door. The doorknob caught him in his side and he grasped hold, wrenching it open. He stumbled through and found himself once more inside the void.

But Stan wasn't here. Instead, there was a man, a stranger. He was standing with his back to Ford. In front of him was a gurney and Ford could just see the small glimpses of rotted flesh peeking out from behind the man. It was a corpse and the man was doing something to it.

He heard footsteps and a young, blonde woman appeared. Ford squinted. He had seen her before, but he couldn't place _where_.

"What the hell do they expect me to do with this?" The man demanded. "Ain't nothing going to make him look human again."

"It's closed casket," the girl said. Her Southern accent was thick.

The man grunted. "Then I won't bother trying to put clothes on him. I'll just cut them and pin them to the body. Much easier."

"Hey, is Pines a Jewish name?" The girl asked.

"What?"

"I'm trying to make a program for Mr. Pines. I feel so sorry for him. He's from up north, New York or something."

"Amy, you ignorant hick," the man cried. "Not everyone from New York is Jewish. His brother here sure isn't." The man gestured to the corpse. "He ain't circumcised."

And just like before, something grabbed him and _pulled_. He was left standing in the middle of his bedroom, still reeling from the shock of it. The shadows had disappeared, the grays pushed back by the sudden flood of color, made brighter by the outside light pouring in from the window. 

Look at the evidence, Fiddleford said.

Ford reached for his desk, yanking open the top drawer to pull out the police report. His notes were sent scattering as he threw it down, flipping it open so that he could go over the facts one more time.

_Single bullet entered through the maxilla on the left side and exited through the right zygoma._

Stan was shot through the left side of his face. That meant he had to have been killed outside of his car and then placed there. Otherwise, he would have been sitting in the passenger seat and Stan _never_ sat in the passenger seat of the Stanmobile. He hadn't even let Ford drive it.

_Red cotton jacket with the sleeves cut all the way up to the armpits. Pale button-down shirt, black slacks. Shoes not found due to feet having detached from the body during decomposition._

Ford still didn't understand why the sleeves of his jacket were cut. Skip it. Go to the next piece of evidence.

Ford flipped the page and saw him. That face. Or, what was left of it. Jawless, the mottled skin, the short brown hair--

Stanley's hair had been longer in Bill's memory. It had brushed the top of his collar.

He could have gotten a haircut between getting arrested and being murdered.

Ford forced himself to flip through the other pictures, the ones he hadn't managed to stomach before. Most were close-ups of the skin. A scar here and there -- _Had Stan always had that scar? Was it new?_ \-- but then he flipped to the last picture, where it showed a close-up of the corpse's thigh and hip. Something had cut into him post-mortem, possibly an animal, but Ford wasn't paying attention to the wound. He could see very clearly the corpse still had his foreskin.

This wasn't his brother.

Ford leaned back into his chair.

_Sixer…_

He ignored the voice. He had to think. He had to think. Bill said he was dead. Bill said he was here in this house, trying to talk to him -- _Bill said, Bill said_ \-- but the man he buried wasn't Stanley.

_Don't ignore me._

There was a knock on the door.

Ford hesitated for a moment, then stood up, placing the report back in the top drawer. He cautiously opened the door and peeked into the living room. It was clear. The knocking continued. Maybe it was Fiddleford. Maybe he had come back. With a burst of excitement, Ford reached the door and pulled it open.

Stan stood on his porch, a small duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He gave Ford a shaky smile. "Hey," he said. "So, don't get mad."


	10. Chapter 10

There’s a list inside of Stan’s head, of things he wouldn’t do. _~~At least he’s never robbed someone~~._ _~~At least he’s not some hired thug~~._ _~~At least he’s never been to prison~~._ _At least he’s never turned tricks._ He’s had to scratch them off one by one as the years passed. He doesn’t know what he’ll do once he reaches the bottom. Throw in the towel and eat a gun, probably. But he’s not there yet. There’s still a couple more at least.

He scratches off _never turned tricks_ as the guy says, “I’ll give you ten bucks to suck my cock.”

The man is young and tall, as tall as Stan, maybe even as strong as him though the rumpled suit hides his body. Stan wants to punch him. He wants him out of his car, he wants to scrub every inch this man has touched until the memory of him is burned out because this car is the only home he has. Instead, Stan says, “Twenty.”

“Okay.”

The man is already pulling himself out, half-hard, and Stan reaches across the console. He takes him in hand, feels the weight of him. He’s stalling. He breathes out through his nose and leans over. The man shifts, his jacket falling open and Stan can just see the glint of a gun nestled in its holster before a hand comes up to cup the back of his head, pushing him down into the man’s crotch.

Something sparks in the back of his head at the sight of the gun, a little niggling feeling that scratches at him, but he’s being pushed down and Stan opens his mouth and tries not to choke. The man keeps a tight grip on his hair, forcing him to move. “Did you do this for Rico too?”

Years of boxing have given his body a mind of its own, movements becoming so ingrained that they’ve become instinctual. He doesn’t even realize what’s happening until he’s yanking himself back, his hair tearing from his scalp, and slugs the man across his face. He’s got one second to think _fuck_ and then he lunges at him, grasping at the gun hidden in his jacket before the man can even realize what’s happening.

Stan throws himself back against the driver’s door, gun in hand and pointed straight at the man’s head. His nose is bleeding and he’s too scared to wipe at the blood oozing down his mouth and chin. He keeps his hands up, his eyes never leaving the gun in Stan’s hand.

“Clyde,” Stan says.

“What?” The man asks.

That niggling feeling. The holster, the gun, just like a cop’s. “You’re Clyde. From the police station.”

The man wheezes, trying to breathe through the blood that continues to pour out. “My name is Cliff. Clifford Jones,” he says.

“Clyde, Cliff, whatever. How do you know Rico?”

“Seriously?” Cliff asks. “The drug trade is booming in Georgia, same as everywhere. You think Rico doesn’t have eyes here? He passed out a list with every name you’ve ever used. Andrew Alcatraz. Steve Pinington. _Stanley Pines_.” Stan flinches at that. “When I heard Andrew Alcatraz had been picked up, I contacted him and he fronted the money for your bail.”

“Rico Ricardo. Richard Richardson.” Stan snorts. “So what do you want with me?”

“You lost half a million dollars worth of heroin in a bust. He’s offering 20k for your head.”

“You couldn’t do it when I was in the drunk tank, all those cops watching, so you got me out and you followed me. And what, the blow-job was just a perk?” Stan spits.

Cliff shrugs. “As long as you were offering it.”

 _Bastard_. “Rico’s really offering $20,000 for me?” Stan asks.

“Yeah,” Cliff narrows his eyes. “What are you thinking?”

“We split the money. You get $10,000 _and_ you get to keep your head. When were you going to meet with him?”

“I wasn’t. I was going to call him when the job was done. The money would be waiting for me in a locker at the Macon Health Club.”

“Which locker?”

“Number 42. Look, I’ve got the key in my back pocket if you don’t believe me.” He starts to reach behind him.

“ _Don’t move,_ ” Stan growls. Cliff’s hands shoot right back where they had been, next to his head.

“If we’re going to do this we need to trust each other,” Cliff protests. “My shoulder is starting to cramp.”

“Yeah?” Stan mocks. “Well, I get neck cramps when I suck strange dick, _so deal with it_.”

Cliff sighs. “We can’t sit like this all night. You want the money, don’t you?”

Stan lets the gun drop a little. Cliff risks wiping at his bloody nose with the back of his sleeve. “Ah, fuck, I think you broke it,” he says.

Then he lunges.

Stan doesn’t give himself time to think. He pulls the trigger. The sound nearly deafens him, and he can’t stop himself from squeezing his eyes shut. When he opens them, his passenger window is painted with Cliff’s blood. And his hair. And his teeth. The rest of Cliff is slumped against the door.

_~~At least he’s never killed anyone~~. _

Okay, okay. He can get out of this. Going to the cops is obviously out. This guy _was_ a cop; no way was he going to get a fair shake and prison guards aren’t too kind to copkillers. Not to mention, there was still the problem with Rico.

Stan can see only one way out of this.

He needs to get out of here and _fast_. He has to assume someone had heard the gunshot and called the cops. He’s parked in front of a deserted convenience store, the windows boarded up. The tiny shotgun houses surrounding him aren’t in any better condition. Gunfire probably wasn’t all that uncommon in this part of the neighborhood, but he couldn’t risk it. Stan throws his car in reverse and takes off. Where to go, where to go. He leans over Cliff’s body and opens his glove compartment, feeling around for his map while trying to keep his eyes on the road. He snags it and pulls it out, casting quick glances at it. He sees the Okefenokee Swamp Park in Waycross. He can get there in about three hours. Three hours driving down the highway with a corpse, but a swamp sounds like the best place to hide a body, so he turns onto the highway and heads southeast.

He tries not to look at Cliff as he drives. The highway is dead this time of night, but Stan isn’t taking any chances. He maintains his speed at 70 miles per hour; not too fast, and not too slow. Completely innocuous. Nothing to see here, Mr. Patrolman. Just me and my buddy who had a little too much to drink. Stan steals a look. Cliff’s missing his jaw. He thinks it might be on the floorboard. Yeah, Cliff’s way past tipsy at this point.

Stan rolls down the window, desperate to get away from the stench of blood and the various other fluids currently leaking out of Cliff. “I’m gonna turn on some music,” Stan announces, like Cliff is going to care.

 _If you like piña coladas and gettin’ caught in the rain_ , Rupert Holmes crooned through the static. _If you’re not into yoga, if you have half a brain, if you like makin’ love at midnight in the dunes on the cape then I’m the love that you’ve looked for. Write to me and escape…_

“I fucking love this song,” Stan says and he wants to laugh, or cry, or _something_ , because this is not the soundtrack he was expecting when driving down the highway with a corpse he had just been blowing for money. What a life.

He starts crossing over bridges and he sees the cypress trees towering over him in the distance. He finds a place to pull off, starts looking for any little country road that will take him somewhere safe near the water. He finds a long, winding dirt road, passes a few dilapidated farmhouses, traveling deeper and deeper into the Georgia wilds.

He finds a good spot and pulls off the road. The tires slip on the thick mud and long grasses before rolling to a stop not far from the water’s edge. Stan looks at Cliff. He’s going to have to touch him. Stan reaches out with one shaky hand and tries to pull at him, but rigor mortis has set in and he's completely stiff. He starts to yank on his jacket, tearing the seams to get it off and it finally pulls loose. Stan takes a breath. Okay, that was step 1. Time for step 2. He takes off his own jacket and tries to put it on Cliff, but his arms are inflexible. The sleeves keep catching.

“Just. Fucking. Get. On. There. FUCK IT!” Stan grabs his pocket knife from his back pocket and cuts the sleeves so that all he has to do is shimmy his arms through the giant holes he made.

Stan starts looking around his glove compartment again. He grabs his old driver’s licence, his glasses, fuck even an old set of keys -- anything that would paint a giant red sign that says THE LATE STANLEY PINES over Cliff’s head -- and shoves them into the jacket’s inside pocket. They don’t actually look all that similar in the face -- not that _that_ mattered anymore -- but they were roughly the same height, same broad shoulders, same brown hair. It could work, given a rejuvenating swamp bath for a couple of weeks.

 _Except for one crucial detail_.

Stan has avoided looking at it, because Cliff’s erection hadn’t gone away. He’d seen that happen before, in prison. The guy in the cell across him hung himself and _up he went_. Stan supposes he could use his pocket knife to give Cliff an impromptu bris -- the foreskin wasn’t completely retracted, he didn’t _think_ it would be that hard to do -- but the thought of touching it again turns his stomach. No. He’s not going to do it. Maybe an alligator will come along and bite it off.

Now to get that key.

Stan shoves Cliff until he’s face down in the floorboard and fishes around in his back pocket. He finds the key soon enough, pockets it along with Cliff’s wallet and anything else that could identify him, and takes another long look. It looks like they wear the same size in shoes and Stan’s sneakers are falling apart. Fuck it, Cliff doesn’t need them. Stan tosses his sneakers into the backseat and takes Cliff’s black oxfords. A little big in the toe, but a pretty comfy fit.

Stan leans back in the driver’s seat, runs his hands over the steering wheel. Well, this was it. Time to sever the last link to _home_ he has left. It doesn’t matter. He’s alive, that’s what’s important. He _survived_. Stan sighs and lets his forehead rest against the wheel, thinks about making out with Carla in the backseat.

He puts the Stanmobile into neutral and gets out, walks around to the back and starts pushing. It isn’t hard; the slick mud helps slide it into the swamp and he watches as the water swallows it whole.

He throws on Cliff’s black jacket, ignoring the damp collar, turns around and starts to head back up the dirt road. It’s mid-morning by the time he manages to find a payphone. He finds a dime in his back pocket and starts punching in numbers; he still remembers Rico’s number by heart. Stan pitches his voice to sound like Cliff. He tells Rico exactly where he can find “Stan’s” body. Rico is pleased, promises to have the money delivered, and hangs up. Stan leans against the booth and starts flipping through Cliff’s wallet. Picture of his mother; no wife, no kids, and that helps to loosen something inside Stan’s chest. He opens the billfold and sees five bucks, which lights a fire inside of him -- _he didn’t even have $20 for that blow-job!_ \-- until he remembers that Cliff had planned to _murder_ him.

He manages to hitch a ride back to Macon and a few days later walks into the Macon Health Club where a long line of lockers are waiting. He fits the key into locker number 42 and finds a black duffle bag inside. He unzips it. Stan can’t help but grin at the neat stacks of crisp $100 bills.

“Guess the bastard wasn’t lying after all.”

* * *

Ford stood dumbstruck in the doorway of his cabin as Stan rambled something about a guy named Rico and a hitman and-- he looked well. Better than he had in Bill's vision. His skin had lost that bruised, jaundiced look and his hair was clean and neat. His clothes were nice. Ford looked past his brother and spotted a 1976 bright blue Plymouth.

Was anything that Bill showed him real?

Ford felt like he had been scraped raw and hollowed out. Ford watched Stan gesticulate, his mouth moving, but not hearing anything over the roar in his ears. All he knew was that Stan had used his family, used _him_ , to make the world think he was dead.

Ford swung out, but Stan must have been expecting it, or maybe he was just naturally faster than Ford, because he dodged the blow. "I said don't get mad!" Stan yelled.

"I buried you!" Ford cried and lunged for his brother. Stan kept backing up, playing keep away. "I can't believe you would do this!"

"Fake my death and live under a false identity? Seems _exactly_ the sort of thing I'd do," Stan muttered under his breath as he ducked out of the way of another attack. "Ford! _Ford!_ Stop! I came here to make it up to you!"

Ford overextended and lost his balance, just managing to catch himself on the post before he went head over ass across the porch railing. "How?! How could you possibly make this up to me?! I mourned you!"

"Look! Just look!" Stan tore off the duffel bag from his shoulder and unzipped it. Ford could see stacks of crisp twenty dollar bills neatly folded inside. "I, uh, recently came into some money and started a business. It's doing really well. This is just from the profits. It's not a million dollars, just $5,000, but this is only the start. I'll get you all of it. Think of this as a down payment."

"I NEVER WANTED MONEY!" Ford screamed.

Stan stood frozen. He had remained calm all throughout Ford's mad attack, but now he could see his brother's face darkening with rage. "Then _what,"_ he ground out. "Did you want me to do all these years?"

Ford let himself sink to the floor. His fingers tangled in his hair, pulling at his scalp, as he yelled, "Do you have any idea what I did for you?! What I've done?!"

"...What did you do?"


	11. Chapter 11

_Well, well, well… if it isn't Spectacles!_

Fiddleford kept his head down as he stumbled out of Ford's house. He could hear footsteps coming up quickly behind him, hard and heavy, and Fiddleford twirled around to yell at Ford, only to see no one there. Ford hadn't followed him outside.

Fiddleford wrenched open the door to his car. He was just jumpy. He had seen a lot of weird things, it was understandable he was a little jumpy. He needed to sleep it off. Or have a couple of drinks. Or both. Both sounded good. Booze, then sleep, and afterward everything will seem like some distant nightmare. He managed to get the keys into the ignition and start up the Isuzu despite his shaking hands. He stepped on the pedal hard enough to kick up gravel and tore down the drive, nearly ripping out his undercarriage on a tree root.

He pulled onto the main road towards town, dipping into the other lane before yanking on the wheel. Fiddleford breathed in deep before letting it out slowly through his nose. He was fine. Everything was fine. He saw a Citgo gas station coming up on his left, it's red triangle logo shining like a beacon. It loomed above him, and… did it just wink?

Fiddleford felt something wet and cold and slimy slither up his ankle, twisting around his calf as it slipped up his pant leg. He let out a shriek and twisted the steering wheel violently, bouncing over a small ditch into the gas station lot and nearly running over a guy pumping gas into his bright blue Plymouth. Fiddleford slammed on the breaks and threw the car in park, before leaning out the door and vomiting all over the pavement. He kept his grip on the door handle, letting his body droop halfway out the car as he reached down to touch his leg. His skin was dry. Whatever it was, it was gone now.

"What the hell is your problem?!"

Fiddleford wiped at his eyes from behind his glasses. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbled. He sat up and came face to face with Stanford Pines.

Or maybe an alternate mirror version of Stanford, because this one had broader shoulders and scarred knuckles and just five fingers for each hand. Not-Stanford curled his hands into a fist and shoved them into his jean pockets. Fiddleford glanced up. The man was staring at him with a cool, calculating look.

He heard a cheery little jingle as the door to the gas station swung open to let someone out. Fiddleford recognized him immediately; after all, Gravity Falls only had the one police officer. Sheriff O'Malley lumbered up to the pair of them, still sipping on his soda pop. He leaned down to look at Fiddleford. "Little early to be drinking, isn't it?" He asked.

Fiddleford shot him a glare. "I haven't been drinking!"

Sheriff O'Malley hummed. "Even if you haven't, you don't seem to be in a fit state to drive. Come on, I'll take you to the station for a bit. Mr. McGucket, isn't it?"

"I told you, I'm not drunk!"

"I'm asking you to come with me, I don't want to make it a demand unless I have to," Sheriff O'Malley said. "Are you good to stand?"

Fiddleford nodded.

"Alright. Head on over to my car. I'll get the owner to call a tow truck for you."

Fiddleford stood on shaky knees and stumbled toward Sheriff O'Malley's patrol car. He turned back to see the sheriff give Not-Stanford a once over. "You look a lot like our celebrity scientist, Dr. Pines."

This Not-Stanford was all smiles as he said, "Celebrity?"

"Well, _local_ celebrity. Probably better known for being a recluse more than anything."

Not-Stanford laughed and held out his hand. "That sounds more like Ford. I'm his older brother, Shermie."

This man was _not_ Sherman Pines. He had seen pictures of Shermie in Ford's house. "He got Mom's nose," Ford had said, with just a tinge of jealousy. This doppelganger had the smile of a used car salesman.

Sheriff O'Malley took the offered hand and shook it. "Pleasure to meet you. Hope to see you around, Mr. Pines."

Not-Stanford-and-Not-Sherman waved and climbed back into his car. O'Malley watched him go before heading back to Fiddleford. "Want something from the store before we head out?" He asked.

Fiddleford shook his head.

"Alright then, let's go."

“So, what happened if you weren’t drinking?” Sheriff O’Malley asked as he pulled out of the parking lot.

Fiddleford was hunched over in the backseat. “Something was in the car with me.”

“What, like a raccoon?”

“Something _wet_.”

“Like a wet raccoon?”

“It wasn’t a raccoon!” Fiddleford screeched. O’Malley’s face remained carefully neutral, and he nodded his head like it was all par for the course. Well, he was from Gravity Falls. It probably was.

Then he asked, “What is it that you and Dr. Pines do up there?”

Fiddleford curled in further on himself. “Experiments.”

“What kind?”

“Quantum physics.”

Sheriff O’Malley nodded his head again, but Fiddleford could see that he had no idea what ‘quantum physics’ was, or probably even how to spell it. Not that Fiddleford blamed him, even he didn’t understand all of it. Next to Ford, he was just a glorified handyman. “Is that, uh, code for something?” O’Malley asked.

Code for something? Like a doomsday portal to Hell? Fiddleford couldn’t help it. He started laughing. He laughed all the way to the old town jail, which probably didn’t help his case any. Fiddleford shuffled inside behind Sheriff O’Malley, fully expecting to be locked up in the little holding cell, but to his surprise O’Malley took him to a back room that had a couch, a table, even a mini refrigerator. A teenager with a Jheri curl was already sprawled across the couch and working on a crossword puzzle. “Any calls, Daryl?” O’Malley asked.

“Susan Wentworth got her hand stuck in a vending machine.”

O’Malley sighed. “Of course she did. Head on home, Daryl, I’ll take it from here.”

Daryl didn’t have to be told twice. He hopped up from the couch, tossing his crossword puzzle on the table as he took off. Sheriff O’Malley gestured to the couch. “Lie down. Get some rest. Grab a coke from the fridge if you want. I’ll come check on you in a few hours.”

Fiddleford sank into the couch as O’Malley turned and left, closing the door behind him. He didn’t know why the old sheriff was doing this -- he _did_ almost run over a man, doppelganger or not -- but Fiddleford wasn’t going to complain. Rest was just what he needed, and when he woke up everything would be better. He could forget.

As Fiddleford got more comfortable, he almost missed the tell-tale _click_ of the door’s lock. Fiddleford sat straight up, his heart thundering, as he stared at the plain wooden door. He quietly tiptoed to it and, slowly, trying not to make a sound, turned the doorknob. It didn’t budge. O’Malley had locked him in. It was probably just a precaution. Fiddleford let out a shaky breath, trying to calm his heart. He could hear sounds coming from the other side of the door, someone was talking, and Fiddleford pressed his ear against it.

It was O’Malley. He was saying something, but no one was replying. On the telephone then? Fiddleford closed his eyes and concentrated.

“Uh huh… Yeah, looks like your suspicions were correct, never would’ve expected it from the good doctor… Yeah, just saw him… Okay, okay… See you then.” _Click_.

* * *

Ford pulled himself to his feet. "Forget it! Just _go!_ I have to-- I've got--" Ford couldn't look at Stan. Looking at Stan made his head buzz and his teeth ache. All he had seen of his twin these past nine years were visions of him, bruised and battered, or decaying and bloodless. To see him as he was now, alive and healthy _and so much older than the teenager he remembered_ \-- Ford needed to talk to Bill. He wanted an explanation. He _deserved_ an explanation.

What if Bill was in cahoots with Stan? Had they planned this together?

_Oh, Sixer, you're killing me! 'Cahoots', haha!_

"I'm not leaving until you talk," Stan said and folded his arms.

"Why didn't _you_ ever talk?!" Ford demanded.

Stan blinked owlishly at him, thrown off track by this sudden accusation. "Eh, what?"

"All those times you called me!" He yelled, throwing up his arms. "I'd pick up the phone and you _never_ said anything!"

Stan's face flushed with color. He looked very much like he had in fifth grade when Minnie Bowers found out it was him who had given her that Valentine. Embarrassed and scared shitless. "Oh, eh heh, you found out that was me? Well, I--I guess I didn't think you'd want to hear from me until I could do something to make up for what happened."

Ford _hated_ the way he kept dodging around his sabotage with euphemisms like 'what happened.' "And after?"

"What after?"

"After you faked your death!"

"What are you talking about?!" Stan demanded, confused and frustrated.

"You called me, _after_ your funeral-- it was lovely, by the way, so sorry you missed it," Ford jabbed. "You called and when I answered you hung up!"

"That wasn't me!"

"Stop lying!"

"I didn't call you, Ford! I couldn't risk it with Rico breathing down my neck!"

Fiddleford might have thrown Ford's memories into doubt, but he _knew_ the phone call was real. It happened before the portal, before Bill. Stan was lying. _Again_.

_If you can't trust your own brother, who can you trust? It's a sad, sad world, Sixer._

"And what did you do to make this Rico so angry that he'd hire a _hit man?_ " Ford demanded. Stan's entire story didn't make sense. It sounded like something from a bad mafia movie.

"I told you. I was in a bar and hit on the wrong chick. Didn't know she was married to a drug dealer." Stan said all of this while never taking his eyes off of Ford. And he _smiled_. 'I swear, I did the homework Miss Jones, but Crampelter stole it.' Maintain eye contact, they'll think you're being sincere. Smile to disarm. It was the classic Stanley deception. Had Stan forgotten that he had explained his entire method to Ford when they were kids?

"How did the hit man get into your car with you?"

A casual shrug. Steady eye contact. "He carjacked me." Lies, lies, _lies_.

Ford shook his head. "Why can't you just tell me the truth?!"

Stan took a half step back, finally breaking his gaze to stare at the ground. Probably thinking up his next lie, Ford thought viciously.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel tore their attention away from each other. Sheriff O'Malley was coming up the drive. Well, _fuck_.


	12. Chapter 12

It was that cop from the gas station. Stan threw a glance at Ford, begging with a look not to say anything, but Ford wasn't facing him. He was staring at the cop as the man climbed out of his patrol car, his mouth pressed into a hard, thin line. Stan watched as he moved slightly to stand in front of his front door. Blocking it. _That_ peaked Stan's interest. What could Ford possibly be hiding in his house that he didn't want the cops to know about. Probably not drugs. Uranium? Stan was betting on uranium. He wanted to jab Ford in the ribs to _not be so obvious_ because the cop was staring.

"I see you found your brother's cabin alright," the cop said.

Stan smiled winningly at him. "Yeah, these woods are something else, which is probably why my little brother likes them so much."

Ford's head whipped around at _that_ , because Ford was the older twin and hadn't he just loved to rub it in when they were kids? Older _and_ taller ( _By an inch and one quarter. Can't forget the one quarter_.) Stan looked back at Ford, still smiling.

Ford fought the scowl that threatened to overtake his face, but he turned back to the cop and said, "You've met my brother Shermie?"

Stan wanted to laugh or shout or jump up and down, because Ford had got it. He _understood_ , without Stan needing to say it out loud. Singletons always oohed and awed over it, they called it 'twin telepathy', but it wasn't anything like Mom's mystical mumbo jumbo. Ford just knew Stan. Knew how he thought, what he liked, what he didn't like, how he would react in any given situation. It was nice, to still be known like that. Stan settled for a grin, a real one this time.

The cop's bushy, gray brows lifted up. "He didn't tell you? Your research assistant nearly ran him over at a Citgo."

"What?!" Ford shouted.

That twitchy drunk was Ford's research assistant? What the hell could he possibly be helping Ford research? _Shit,_ Stan thought, _maybe Ford_ is _hiding drugs in his house._

"What with the state your friend is in," the cop continued. "I thought I'd come on up for a wellness check. Mind if I take a look around inside?"

Ford's face froze. He shuffled backward until he hit the door, his hand reaching out to grasp the knob like a vice. "I…"

"Ya got a warrant?" Stan asked.

The cop turned to look at him. "What?"

"A warrant. My brother's got a lot of delicate experiments going on in there, so unless it's something important he can't let outsiders inside. So, you'll need a warrant if you want to come in and poke your nose around."

The cop rocked back on his heels. "No, Mr. Pines, I haven't got a warrant. Didn't think I needed one, but if that's how you feel I can speak with a judge. Have a good day." He tipped his hat to them and walked back to his car.

As soon as the car had turned down the drive, Ford sagged against the door, only to jump when Stan whirled around to yell, "What the fuck was that about?"

"What do you mean?" Ford never could pull off that doe-eyed innocent look even back when they were kids, it definitely wasn't going to work now, not with the way he kept glancing between Stan and the door, his hands twisting in front of him.

" _What do you mean?_ " Stan mocked. "The _cop_ , Ford!"

Ford straightened up, his anger coming back in full force as he snapped back, "You're one to talk, _Shermie_."

Stan was running into a brick wall here. Ford had done _something_ \-- something that had led a research assistant to drink, something that he didn't want the cops knowing, something he did because he thought Stan was dead and didn't that feel like a knife in his gut. He had to get to the bottom of it, he had to fix it. "Get outta the way, Ford."

Ford stubbornly set his jaw.

Fine. They'll do it the hard way. Stan threw up his hands. "Fine. You win. I'll go. Keep the cash. Consider it a grant for your next project." He stepped off of the porch, Ford's hard, suspicious eyes never once leaving him. Stan turned slightly, as if to head to his car. Then he flipped Ford the bird and dashed to the side of the house. He grabbed a rock and chucked it through what looked like a kitchen window, making a hole just large enough to slip his arm through and unlatch it. He could hear Ford scream, "DAMN IT, STANLEY!" and the front door slam just as Stan pushed the window open and clamored inside.

Other than a massive pile of dirty dishes, there didn't seem to be anything noteworthy in the kitchen, so Stan abandoned it for what seemed to be a den area off of the living room. His eyes immediately fell on the elevator. On the outside, the house looked to be only one story with maybe a furnished attic, so the elevator had to go _down_. Ford ran into the room, wild-eyed, but Stan was already inside the elevator and fractically pressing the _Close Doors_ button. It slid shut just as Ford reached him and he heard a loud bang as Ford's fist hit the metal frame.

The elevator started its slow descent. It seemed to last forever and Stan could feel his anxiety creep through him as the elevator went deeper and deeper. This wasn't a normal basement. Just how far down did it go? The elevator jerked to a stop and Stan shoved his way through before the doors had even fully opened. He blinked around him in awe as he stood in a massive cavern, bigger than any basement he had ever seen, larger even than many buildings. Stan supposed it would need to be, to house… _that_. Whatever it was. The massive steel triangle managed to dominate the entire room, not an easy feat considering the size of the room itself.

He heard the elevator lurch back to life as it crawled upwards. Ford would be here soon. Stan jerked towards the nearest table and started flipping through papers, but there were more numbers than letters written on them and Stan couldn't make heads or tails of it. He threw the papers down with a huff and gave another look around. There was a gurney in one corner with something hidden beneath a sheet, and a side room. Stan went for the side room, twisted the knob and found it locked. As it _that_ had ever stopped him before. He backed up a couple of steps and kicked it in, revealing what Stan could only describe as a shrine.

There were more triangles, painted onto banners, drawn on the floor, and they all stared at him with their single eye.

Stan heard footsteps running up from behind and Ford's gasping breath, "It's not what it looks like!"

Stan looked at him, dumbfounded. "I have no idea what it looks like. I don't understand any of this. I mean, as far as religions go, I've seen weirder. I should tell you about the time I met Jim Jones."

"I'm not in a cult!" Ford protested.

Which Stanley thought was _worse_ , because then it meant Ford was just crazy.

"I met a… an inter-dimensional being, he referred to himself as a psychopomp. His name is Bill Cipher."

Stan felt his stomach sinking with each word Ford said. "What's a psychopomp?" He asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"It's a Greek word, from _psyche_ \- meaning 'soul' - and _pompos_ \- meaning 'conductor.' He said… he said I would be able to talk to you if I built him an inter-dimensional portal."

Stan briefly closed his eyes and tried to settle his stomach. It twisted in on itself, with guilt and fear and anxiety. He just wanted to be free of Rico. He hadn't meant to cause _this_. When he opened his eyes again, Ford was staring at him, his face haggard and unsure and he looked like _his_ Ford again, the one he knew as a child. Stan smiled and played along. "Except I wasn't actually dead. Bill must not be a very good psycho-whatever."

Ford set his jaw. "He should have known. He told me… it doesn't matter what he told me. I need to talk to him. I need to get some answers. You should probably leave."

Like hell was Stanley going to do that. Ford needed help. "I'm not going anywhere. I want to know what Bill has to say too."

Ford gave him a suspicious once-over. "Fine, but you're staying out here and _don't touch anything_."

He pushed Stan out of the room and slammed the door shut, taking a moment to wrestle a chair in front of it to keep it closed after Stan had broken the the knob. Stan pressed his ear against the wood, expecting to hear Ford mumble to himself, fighting with whatever imaginary monster his brain had conjured up. But there was nothing except the rustling of his clothing and the sound of matches being struck.

* * *

Ford closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting his mind relax and slip into that in-between dream world that Bill resided in. When he opened his eyes again he found himself in his usual chair, the chessboard laid out before him, and Bill stirring a cup of tea. "It's your move," he said, his tone full of sweet mockery.

"You lied to me," Ford accused. He was proud of how steady his voice was.

Bill waved him off. "Nonsense. I just _enhanced_ the truth!"

"You let me think Stanley was dead!"

" _Stanley_ wanted you to think he was dead, I just played along."

"And I suppose you're going to tell me that the portal was also Stanley's idea?"

Bill laughed. "Stanley? Coming up with the idea for the portal? We both know he isn't smart enough for that!"

"You used me." Try as he might, he couldn't keep the hurt out of his voice.

"Sure did! I used you to get my portal. Stanley used you to make the world think he was dead. Your father used you in hopes of making it rich. Your bullies used you to write their school papers." Bill circled around his head. "Face it, Sixer. You were made to be used by the people around you. What good are you if you won't use that big brain of yours to help people? You think they'll want to stick around otherwise? Please! You're about as interesting as watching paint dry!" He leaned forward, his great eye nearly touching Ford's nose. "And let's not forget the fact that _you_ tried to use _me_. Did you think I actually believed you when you said you just wanted to talk to your brother? That I would never find out about the metal shell you planned to keep him in? Like he was a _pet_? Face it, you're just like me."

Rage and humiliation set his nerves on fire. " _Get out!_ GET OUT! I want you out of my head!"

"I'd love to, really," Bill patted his head like he was a dog and Ford took a wild swing at him. "I've been so _bored_ listening to you whine all the time. But I can't!"

And there was another Ford, sitting across from in Bill's usual seat, his hand reaching out to shake his. "Alright, until the portal is finished, you can share my body."

Ford was disgusted by the open naivety on his own face. He turned away from the phantom to face Bill. "You want that portal? Well, guess what? _I'll never finish it!_ You can sit there and listen to me _whine_ for the rest of time for all I care!"

Bill laughed. He doubled over, clutched at his midsection, and _laughed_ with maniacal glee. "Oh, I was hoping you'd say that. Now the real fun can start!"

The chessboard disappeared and Ford found himself sitting in an old-fashioned movie theater with plush, velvet seats. The lights dimmed and the screen flickered. He watched as Stan, silent and in black-and-white, jumped back. His mouth moved and a title card flashed across the screen. _Ford!_ It said. _I wasn't spying! Honest!_

Ford could feel his heart stop as he realized _this wasn't a movie_. He was looking out through his own eyes as Bill piloted his body towards his brother. Bill popped a piece of popcorn between the lids of his eye, his little L-shaped feet sticking out like a child's. "How this ends is up to you," Bill said, his single eye crinkling with glee.


	13. Chapter 13

Stan wasn't sure what he expected to hear when Ford went into his weird little shrine room to talk to "Bill." Ford launching into a crazy ramble with himself perhaps. Maybe some chanting. Stan pressed his ear against the door. It was silent, except for Ford's breaths, which came slower by the second and…

Did he just fall asleep?

Yeah, that was a snore.

Stan pulled back a little, absolutely dumbfounded. This was not how he imagined their reunion would go. He had _hoped_ Ford would accept the money and welcome him back with open arms. He had _expected_ anger at his deception, and to be sent away again for having told one lie too many. Nothing could have prepared him for this. He didn't even understand what _this_ was.

Whatever Ford had used to block the door was pushed away with a screech. Stan had only just managed to jump back as the door was thrown open. "Ford! I wasn't spying! Honest!"

Ford stood in the doorway, his smile twisted wide. His eyes looked almost yellow in the fluorescent light, which only belied his haggard, sallow face. When was the last time he ate a vegetable? "Stanley! I've been thinking, I really haven't been that fair to you."

Stan gaped. "Uh, what?"

"Sure, you might have ruined my dreams and faked your death, which sent me into a spiral of grief and depression, but you're here now. I say let bygones be bygones. Come on upstairs, we can talk." Ford's hands pushed him towards the elevator and Stan let himself be swept along, despite the warning bells ringing in his head.

This was too easy, and nothing ever came easy to Stanley Pines. He'd almost think his brother had been replaced by a pod person. He didn't even really sound like Ford. He was wobbly on his feet, like a drunk marionette whose strings had been cut. Did he take something when he was in that room? LSD? Is that how he communicated with "Bill"?

"So, uh, what did Bill say?" Stan asked.

Ford gave him a little shove into the elevator. "He said I should forgive you."

Well, who was Stan to argue with an LSD-induced hallucination? "So, how are you feeling? Feeling… calm?" Hallucinogens had never been Stan's poison. Only thing worse than hallucinogens was heroin. Heroin was like being smothered to death by a warm, wet blanket. What a great PSA for kids. _You want to experience what it's like to do heroin without all the terrible side effects? Go soak ten blankets in a hot tub, get completely under them, and then have someone sit on you until you pass out! Don't do drugs, kids!_

"I've never felt better," Ford said, as the elevator groaned.

It opened onto the den and Ford strode out, heading straight for the kitchen. After a second's hesitation, Stan followed. "What have you got to drink?" He asked. Ford was digging through one of the drawers.

"Water, mostly. I think there's still a couple of beers in the fridge," he said and pulled out a steak knife. Stan had only a moment to wonder, _What's he need that for?_ Before Ford plunged it into him. His body reacted before his brain did, curling to the side to protect his throat and chest. The knife pierced into the meaty flesh of his shoulder and it felt like his entire arm had been set on fire.

He twisted away, snapping the handle off of the cheap steak knife, but leaving the metal piece still buried deep. It was his right shoulder too, and Stan was no southpaw. He scrambled out of the kitchen just as Ford grabbed at another knife. "I thought you forgave me!"

"I do, Stanley, I do. But we have to make things fair. Shermie and I spent a lot of money on your casket. It's only right that its your body inside of it."

There was nothing about _that_ that made sense. Stan raced down the hall and dove into what looked to be a bedroom. Not Ford's, unless Ford had decided to take up the banjo in the past nine years. The drunk research assistant's maybe? Stan shut the door and grabbed at the banjo. He tried to lift it like a bat, but his shoulder screamed and his fingers went numb. It slid to the floor with a loud _thunk!_ "If it's about money, I gave you that! I can get you more!"

"And how exactly did you manage to make all that money, Stanley?" Ford asked in a song-song voice as he came down the hall. Stan picked up the banjo again, keeping it in his left hand, his right arm tucked against his chest. "Bill told me why that man was in your car."

Stan felt his mouth go dry. Ford didn't know. He _couldn't_ know. Bill was just a figment of his own imagination.

"$20, huh?" Ford asked, his voice warped with glee. Stan felt his stomach drop. "Is that the going rate these days? Personally I think you were overcharging him. You think any part of you is worth $20? Not your mouth, not your body, _definitely_ not your brain."

Stan froze. There was no way-- _no way_ Ford could have known that. Even if he might have guessed Stan had been desperate enough to turn tricks, he couldn't have known with such certainty how much he had charged and for what acts. Shit, maybe Bill _was_ real.

Ford stopped in front of the bedroom door. " _Stanley_ …" He called.

Stan watched as the doorknob turned, letting it crack just a sliver before kicking it open the rest of the way. He heard Ford grunt in pain as the doorknob caught him in the stomach with enough force to stagger him. Stan followed through, swinging out with the banjo. He didn't have enough control in his left hand and the banjo sailed over Ford's head.

Ford tackled him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. Ford wasn't the skinny nerd he had been in high school; he had enough bulk to keep Stan pinned to the ground. Stan caught the glint of the knife as it hovered above his eye. "I always thought two eyes were just _excessive_ ," Ford said, still smiling.

Stan turned his face away, but Ford grabbed his chin and forced his head back. The knife was centimeters from his eye, but what had caught Stan's attention was Ford's pupils. They were slitted, like a cat's. "Eeny meeny mi--"

Ford froze. He stopped mid-sentence, the knife locked into position, like a wound-up toy that had lost its power. Stan didn't ask any questions. He slugged Ford across the face and rolled out from underneath him. He heard the knife skitter across the floor, and he was up on his feet, running to--

Something exploded across his face, wood splintering and strings snapping as the banjo struck him hard against the head. Stan collapsed, reaching out to grab the doorknob in attempt to slow his descent, but the door jumped out of his reach. Stan fell on his back and the room wavered, blinking in and out of existence. Stan was pretty sure he wasn't a triplet, but nonetheless there were two Fords smiling down at him. "Sweet dreams," they cooed as Stan faded out of consciousness. "Because when you wake up you'll find that all your nightmares have come true."

* * *

Bill disappeared and the film turned vibrant with Technicolor, complete with sound. "Stanley! I've been thinking, I really haven't been that fair to you," Ford heard his own voice say through the screen.

"It's a trap! That's not me!" He screamed, but of course Stan couldn't hear him. Ford ran down the aisle toward the emergency exit, pushing against the bar and stumbling into a hallway filled floor to ceiling with television screens, each one showing Stan's face as he said, "What have you got to drink?"

Ford kept running. He had to get out of here, he had to escape-- and _how did you escape your own mind?_ He reached another door, threw it open, and found himself in an old drive-in theater. The old Stanmobile -- wet, rusted, covered in algae like it had just been pulled out of a swamp -- stood alone and empty in the lot. Ford felt his stomach lurch at the sight of it, but then a cry erupted from the towering screen above him. Ford watched in horror as Stan twisted away from Bill, clutching at his arm where Bill had just stabbed him with a knife. Stan ran down the hall and into Fiddleford's bedroom. Bill calmly tossed away the broken knife handle and got a new one from the drawer. "$20, huh?" He asked as he followed Stan down the hall. "Is that the going rate these days? Personally I think you were overcharging him. You think any part of you is worth $20? Not your mouth, not your body, _definitely_ not your brain."

It took him a moment to fully understand what Bill was saying, and when it hit him he felt a calm settle over his skin. _Oh_ , he thought as he started running again, into the woods that loomed behind the drive-in. _This is what that feels like._ He always wondered how any human being could want to kill another person. Now he knew, because he was going to kill Bill Cipher. He was dead. Dead. Dead.

The deeper he went, the more blocky and geometric the trees became. Fiddleford had shown him a prototype of a DD&D game he was building on one of those computers he had brought with him. Whenever Ford had moved his character into a new area, it always took a moment for the scenery to appear, first in blocks and then gradually more details would be added in. "It needs time to render," Fiddleford had said.

Bill was having trouble keeping up with him, especially with his attention divided between both Pines brothers. This was still Ford's dreamscape. He still had power here. Ford willed an escape to appear in front of him and the shadows shifted, creating a door. He pushed through and stumbled for a moment, blinking into the darkness of the void.

He was here again-- whatever _here_ was. He saw himself this time, digging through a kitchen drawer. "$20, huh?" He asked, grinning to himself.

Ford gave a jolt as he realized _this had just happened_. All those times before he had seen pieces of the past, like-- like-- a memory. But not his. Realization crashed against him. He was in Bill's memories. They were linked together and where Bill can unfold Ford's mind, plucking through the pages and manipulating it at will, it had never once occurred to Ford that he might be able to do the same thing to Bill, that the link went both ways.

The invisible force rushed at him, trying to force him out. Bill. Bill didn't want him here. Ford fought against it, keeping his eyes locked on the image of himself wrestling with Stan, the knife hovering just over his eye. Bill froze, the force shuddered and stopped, and Stan slugged Bill across the face-- the delay between what was happening outside and the memory being shown was only a matter of seconds. Bill couldn't pilot his body while trying to push Ford out, freezing him in place just long enough to give Stan time to punch him. He watched as Stan scrambled to his feet. Ford's body -- with Bill in control once more -- clamored after him. Ford didn't wait to see what happened; he pushed deeper into the void, into Bill's memories, hoping Stanley would be okay.


End file.
